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THE IDEALIST 


/ 

BY HENRY T. KING 
AUTHOR OF THE 
EGOTIST, ESSAYS, &c 




\ FEB 241892 J t 

V 

\ - v *' 1 

PHILADELPHIA 

I. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 


1892 



THB LIBRARY 

OF CONGRESS f 

' 

WASH!NO'"'' v 


Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1892, by 
HENRY T. KING, 

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 


Printed by J. B.Lippincott Company, Philadelphia. 











PREFACE. 


T HIS book is abrupt; the word often harsh; the 
sentence sometimes rude and broken, and, tried 
by the grammarian’s rules, not always “ correct.” 
Yet the style, the choice of the word, the structure 
of the sentence is mine, and best expresses my 
thought. I know of no statute which declares the 
true use of the English language; no author, who 
holds it in trust. It is free to every man to use as 
best fits his purpose. 

I will not say I have been guided alone by my 
own conscience in my writing; that expression is trite 
and stale, and when spoken generally false; besides, 
it has a nasal twang I abhor. It suits my taste better 
to say I have consulted my own judgment. As to 
that which I have already written, bitter criticism has 
been consoled by loving approval. The one I try to 
forget, the other I cherish. I will not say I care not 
whether the reader approves or is pleased; that would 
not be true; yet I have not thought of either in my 
meditations. A writer traverses an unknown sea; 
he may reach dry land, or he may be wrecked,— 
wrecked upon the rock of silence, and his work go 
to the bottom unnoticed and unknown, or he may 



PREFACE. 


4 

reach the shore to meet the cutting winds of criti¬ 
cism, a savage armed, not with the poisoned arrow, 
but with the venom-pointed pen; the more deadly 
weapon. No approval of what he has already done 
gives the writer absolute confidence; he still feels 
his book a venture. Some critics seem angry with 
the author, as though he had done the writer of the 
criticism a personal wrong in publishing. I accuse 
such critics of envy, or feel sure that they have been 
wounded. The writer’s thrust has pierced their pan¬ 
oply of self-esteem, and their cry is of the wounded, 
and not the shout of the victor. 

The personal allusions are mostly for the purpose 
of showing that I have been an actor, not a dreamer. 
I am not weak enough to suppose that my readers 
will think any better of me for anything I may write 
of myself, though I may easily make them think less. 
It is a great comfort to talk of one’s self. I know 
of no more self-pleasing topic, but prudence bids me 
forbear. 

I have determined to call my book “The Idealist.” 
I could think of no better title. He who differs from 
the majority of men is called an idealist. Much that 
I have written does not accord with popular opinion. 
And my ideals would not be popular men and women. 
I have tried to sketch their contour as they have 
flitted through my fancy, sometimes in joyous meas¬ 
ure, but oftener to sad strains. They are disappoint¬ 
ing. I do not love them. I have read of but one 
whose loved model took life, and I think the end 


PREFACE. 


5 


was sadness. If we could clothe the shadows of 
our imagination with mortality they would deceive 
and mock us. It is better to dwell in the ideal, to 
float upon the surface, than to dive into the deep 
waters. Blessed are the children of the sun who 
dance in his beams, and slumber when the night 
comes. 


i* 






CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Prelude... 

That which soothes the Writer.21 

The Player and the Pipe.22 

Must we have a Belief?.23 

The Best Life leaves the Least.25 

The Snows of Winter upon the Page.26 

The Torture of Accumulation.28 

The Story of Eden.29 

Romance lives not with Content.30 

Hate has no Statute of Limitations.31 

Woman’s Money.32 

Free Libraries, Pauperizing Charity.33 

The King of Dross.34 

Hurt Self.35 

The Dreamer and the Actor.37 

The Tear not the Argument.39 

Men’s Speeches of the Living and of the Dead .... 42 

The Fleck of Sunshine.43 

The Narrowing of One Study.44 

What our Friends would give us.46 

Vivisected and dissected.47 

The Cynic. 49 

Mortified Vanity in seeming Obedience.51 

Immortal by Satire.52 

The breathed Name.53 

Age’s Refuge. 55 

Worship from Selfishness . ..57 

The Martyrs of Thought.58 


7 






























8 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Memory’s Words. 60 

Fortune’s Scorn for her Favorites.62 

Disrobed Thought.64 

The Visionary.65 

A Bizarre Bird. The American Exclusive ...... 68 

Forgetfulness. 7 ° 

The Devotee and Defaulter.72 

Obstinacy not a Virtue. 74 

The Anger of Memory.76 

The Accusation of Imitation. 77 

Life’s Poverty. 81 

The Self-Deception of Age.82 

Intolerance.84 

The Poison of Gifts.88 

You CANNOT REMOULD THEM. 90 

But One Way to pay Debts.92 

Waiting for our Death.94 

We cannot plan Happiness.98 

Silence.100 

Man’s Approval. 102 

The Test of Respectability.105 

The Old Butterfly.107 

Humility to Man not a Virtue.109 

The Clean Page.112 

Argument does not reveal the Truth.113 

The Vice of “Public Charities”.115 

Why Men pass Out of Sight.121 

The Gentleman.125 

What is Strength?.128 

Community’s Estimation.131 

The Strait-Jacket.137 

Changed Births.139 

In the Strife.141 

The Quarrel with Life.143 

Is Man made Better by Deception?.146 

The Lesson of Love.148 






































CONTENTS. 


9 


PAGE 

The Name of the Most Cruel Man on Earth .... 150 

The “Black Brast”.152 

The Inventory of Losses by Time.154 

The Rogue.157 

Vows WHICH DWARF.l6o 

“ Be Iron”.163 

Fear rules the World.165 

Boldness a Party’s Strength.168 

The Vow of Iniquity.170 

Romance’s Death.174 

“Honorable Mention”.176 

The Child of Ignorance.178 

The “ Bad Book”.180 

The Steadfast Heart.183 

Intellect cannot be dulled to Happiness.186 

Men tear the Thread of their Lives.188 

Literary Aspirations.190 

Ingrates are born of Flatterers.195 

We stumble at our own Deeds.198 

Man and Woman.199 

“ Social Position”.203 

Office-Seeking.208 

Self-Assertion.210 

The Martyrs of Error.214 

Nature will not be moved.216 

Humanity.217 

Are Lawyers Necessary?.219 

Does Fame gain by Fiction ?.223 

Of Listeners.225 

Respectability.228 

Content with Ourselves.230 

The True Cause.234 

Building Monuments.236 

Resume .. 2 3 ^ 

Produce Green Leaves.241 

Pleasure Seekers.242 





































10 


CONTENTS . 


PAGE 

Self-Consciousness.243 

The True Purpose of Law.245 

“ The Teaching of Development”.246 

The Breath which taints.248 

But painted Cards.249 

Do Writings convey the Power of the Writer ? . . . 250 

Human Blood is Sacred.251 

The Gloomy Monody.252 

Attractive Individuality.254 

Man’s Belief as to the Love shown Another .... 255 

Sarcastic Speech.256 

Dignity to Money.257 

Envy.258 

Personal Charms and Sense.259 

Virtue and Success.260 

To Whom is our Youth Given?.261 

That which I would not teach a Daughter • . . . . 263 

The Other World.265 

Thrifty Selfishness.266 

The “ First Lady of the Land”.269 

Following your Father’s Faith.271 

What of That?.273 

Unmoved.275 

Woman’s True Place.278 

“ Killing Time”.281 

A Cheap World.282 

A Rhapsody.2S7 

Poverty.291 

Don’t wear out the Face.297 

Crime not an Incident of Life.300 

The Rich and the Poor cannot keep Step.302 

Some Estimates of Character.303 

Our Interests are with our Fellow-Man .310 

Catching the Rays.312 

A Lawyer putting his Honor in Pledge.314 

A Leaf or More.317 



































THE PRELUDE. 


T HIS book has been written and table of contents 
prepared, and as yet I have not found for it a 
name. I abhor a false title as I do a false sentiment, 
and I dread a second-hand title. I do not think 
there is anything second-hand in the book, and I do 
not wish the title-page to be an exception. I feel 
sure I have plundered no mental clothes-line or stolen 
any mind’s garb. I might have obtained handsomer 
garments by marauding than by spinning and weav¬ 
ing. But I have tried to spin and I have tried to weave 
my own fabrics, and to put upon them my trade-mark. 
Though I do not care who plunders me, he pays me a 
compliment, and he will be found out. I will find a 
name. I do not care that it shall be‘‘catching.” I 
want an honest, durable name, and if I can invent it, one 
that shall be an index of my work. One that shall 
not give the reader cause to say I have deceived him. 

Perhaps most of my readers will be surprised at 
the freedom with which I write, that I seem to con¬ 
ceal so little. In truth, I am not afraid of my fellow- 
man. I know no reason why I should be. That 
which I reveal he will find in his own heart, though 
he thinks he covers it. If he does not find it there, 
then he may be surprised to find it in me, and be 



12 


THE PRELUDE. 


surprised that I have told it. There is no place for 
concealment in this world; we are found out. We are 
known as we little suppose we are. Having made up 
my mind to this, I have had no fear in writing. I 
felt that no revelation would astonish the reader, save 
as he would be astonished that I should reveal it. I 
think I know my field, and I have not strayed from it. 

It would be to my interest, to my peace, to my 
reputation, if I had kept silent where I have spoken, 
or have spoken in a different tone. If I offend, so 
let it be. I have not written to offend, though I 
doubt not but I shall. It has been said that I lack 
modesty. I admit it. As modesty is understood, I 
do not possess it and do not desire it. I make no 
man my model. None are fit for models. The flaw 
can always be seen. This remark will anger some 
men,—men who think they are models. And we 
have them among us. Their statues would embody 
the thought of self-sufficiency. I will here repeat 
that I do not write from suggestions I receive from 
reading, unless it be to deny or contradict, and this 
I do but seldom. It is the suggestion of the inci¬ 
dents of real life which I record. Sometimes I for¬ 
bear, because I would too vividly show the prompters^ 
of my reflections. They might be recognized. I 
wish to avoid personality. I do not wish to draw a 
portrait, which, though left without a name, will be 
known by any one. I cannot help surmises and 
conjectures, which will generally be erroneous; but 
I will avoid certainties. It is the principles of human 


THE PRELUDE. 


13 


action, as suggested by the actors, I wish to point 
out, not to paint the portraits of the actors. I am 
not a portrait-painter, though I may draw some of 
the lineaments. I shall not group them. I shall 
not put the features together to make a known face. 

I have no quotation padding. Who is the writer 
that treads not upon another’s heels, who touches 
not another’s elbow, who never steps into another’s 
footprints ? He cannot but cross one of the count¬ 
less paths other men’s feet have marked. Thought 
must needs jostle thought. There are stars in the 
firmament of thought its ouranography has not yet 
marked ; and that writer does much who can add 
one gem, though he does not discover the source of 
each bright ray his map points out. He may write 
with eyes dimmed by emotion ; with a purpose which 
has in it not one grain of self, and yet be deemed 
cold and misanthropic. If he see an iceberg, must 
he not warm because the sun glistens upon it? He 
knows that its brightness is delusive, must he, then, 
say that it is the glow of heat which lights it up ? Is 
this giving men “ good cheer” ? It has been said I 
bring men no “ good cheer”; that I add to no man’s 
strength. My purpose is to attack the wrongs I see. 
It is my purpose to make men feel uncomfortable, if 
tearing off their false faces will do it, and I am not 
to be deterred by the reproach of bitterness. The 
man who has no bitterness has never felt but for 
himself. And I will not gloss it over, or adopt the 
cant of saying I only condemn the wrong. I despise 


14 


THE PRELUDE. 


the man. I do not separate the man from his hypoc¬ 
risy and greed. He has fattened upon them. I 
enter no lists. I issue no challenge. I seek no con¬ 
troversy. That which I write must be its own de¬ 
fence or it must fall. I shall not turn back to defend 
it. My writings have met with a favor I never hoped 
for. They have been found more worthy than I 
deemed them. They have struck a responsive chord 
in noble souls, whose commendations are as sweet 
melody to my ear. In the little I have written I 
have all my treasure; earth’s value to me is found 
there. All else has died. The night of forgetfulness 
is upon it. This too may perish; but I have tried to 
put it in the vaults of the more enduring trust com¬ 
pany. A few years and my tongue will be silent; 
then I hope my printed page will yet speak. This 
too may be a delusion, a hope without basis. Yet 
have I toiled for it. I have tried to show the manner 
of man I am. All men believe they are misunder¬ 
stood. None believe justice has been done them. 
In part this may be true, though not to the extent of 
vanity’s complaint. Earth’s immortality, an abiding- 
place among men, is no gift; it is the fruit of toil. 
Many a noisy trumpet will be forever silenced in 
death, while the written thoughts, unheeded by the 
mob, will speak to the chosen ones through the long 
years of futurity. In another book I have written 
of the fleeting reputation of my profession. Of the 
slight impress its work makes upon time’s journals. 
I have told how great abilities are covered by dark- 


THE PRELUDE. I 5 

ness and oblivion. To the novitiate the fame seems 
great; to the emeritus, ashes. 

This prelude does not tell the story of the book 
or give its outlines. It gathers up the broken sen¬ 
tences, the wandering, vagabond thoughts, which 
have no other resting-place. 

I have not painted a screen to hide the flame of 
anger which the triumph of craft and cunning kin¬ 
dles in the breast of every thinking man. Nor yet 
is that flame, but jets of gas through painted wood 
It is not a counterfeit. I have brought what fagots 
I could. I have laid them on the pile. 

I write of to-day, not of yesterday; of the living, 
not of the dead ; of the awake, not of the slumbering. 
Rubbish is worthless, whether ancient or modern. 
Dust does not give value. An acquaintance once 
stopped me on the street and asked me “ why Caesar 
crossed the Rubicon ?” My answer was more curt 
than patient,—that I was concerned with living men, 
not with dead Caesars. 

I have not thought it necessary to note every 
qualification or possible exception to my assertions. 
Exceptions weaken. If I break down one wall of 
the fortress of error, truth may enter. It is not 
necessary that I shall batter its four walls. If the 
plant is baleful, I need not hesitate to pull it up be¬ 
cause the harmless violet nestles beneath it. If I 
wish to destroy a counterfeit note, I need not hesitate 
to tear it because it has a good man’s portrait upon 
it. Truth need not make apologies or stop to 


1 6 


THE PRELUDE. 


courtesy to error. Its path is direct; it knows no 
oblique lines. A “ learned” book must of necessity 
give the thoughts of others. A “ learned” man is a 
man who has a large store of the opinions of other 
men. He may not have the slightest original power. 
The most “ learned” men have done the least for the 
world. In my student days I was told of a lawyer 
who could recite Blackstone’s Commentaries, yet he 
was only the collector of petty accounts. Learning 
enables a man to collect and copy, not to originate. 
The “ learned” legal argument cites authorities; it 
need not be living thought. That writer who gives 
a thought, or who presents it in a new light, makes 
an addition to the world’s thought. The merely 
“ learned” writer makes none. He has taken some 
stones out of the wall already built and put them in 
another part of it. He has not added to its cubic 
feet. He who brings one stone and places it on the 
wall increases it. Learning is for the man’s self. 
He cannot give it to others; it is not his to give. 
Others may get where he did. His own thought he 
may distribute. His basket is filled with fruit from 
orchards he did not plant; from gardens where all 
may pluck. The diligent may become “ learned”; 
but no diligence can bring a new thought. Learning 
digs; if it sows, it is with stolen seed. Learning is 
the work of those who have gone before, and the 
“ learned” writer repeats it. Learning is of the past; 
it hinders as well as helps. 

I make no doubt it will be said that I make strange 


THE PRELUDE. 


17 


utterances for singularity; that I attack received 
opinions in wantonness and presumption. All this 
I anticipate. I will not say I do not regard it. I 
care not how violent the storm may rage, how bitter 
the denunciation I may invoke, but I do care if any 
reader shall believe that I am writing intrusive para¬ 
doxes. My range of vision may be narrow; but 
within it I think I see clearly. My mind or temper 
is such that I have no respect for “ authority.” “Au¬ 
thority” is the work of man. I am a man; and no 
other man has the right to dominate over me. “ My 
mind a kingdom is.” There I reign. I share no 
divided empire. I ask to rule no other. I ask to 
influence no other, save by the “ truth that is in me.” 
I do not wish to extend my empire by the force of 
authority. It is my right to offer, it is the reader’s 
to receive or reject. I would join hands with my 
kindred in the world of thought, not to rule over 
them, but to obtain their sympathy and love. Our 
true kindred may not be of our blood. The soul has 
stronger bands than blood. To such I would indite 
a loving epistle. We may never touch each other’s 
hands, yet the hand which writes this stretches out. 
This night, as I write, my heart softens ; it seeks for 
love. To my mind comes the question of my pur¬ 
pose in writing. Will it bear the inquiry of life’s 
closing hour ? If I thought a page would not, I 
should tear it out. Yet I cannot answer. My mind 
may now be clouded with passion, which will be 

lifted up as life passes away. I may then regret— 
b 2* 


i8 


THE PRELUDE. 


regret with the bitterness of unavailing sorrow. Of 
all this have I thought; but it seemed true as I 
wrote; and I have no other guide. I make no invo¬ 
cation. God will not change his laws at my call. If 
I have truly read them, all will be well. If I have 
mistaken them, it is for want of light. 

The historian has his records, the man of science 
his experiments, the law-writer his cases; but I have 
no book of reference save Worcester’s Dictionary 
when hesitation makes me doubt my spelling of a 
word. I have never been able to command a thought, 
to call for it, and have it come. Like wild-birds 
thoughts fly through my brain, and I must have my 
net spread to catch them, or they are gone. I have 
no tamed ones cooped up to furnish a repast to offer 
my readers. They are ever flying; sometimes I but 
see the tips of their wings as they disappear, and 
then my table has but dishes,—words and no thought. 
I never confine myself to the main road if I think I 
see a more attractive path. I scale the hedge of 
continuity, and follow that path far from the open 
highway, perchance never to return to it. I do not 
promise to keep to any road. I reserve the right to 
chase every butterfly I see; to scratch my hands, to 
pluck each flower, though it grows among briers. 
Stupidity may be orderly; it generally is. My reader 
may be as erratic as I am ; if so, we will join hands 
and wander, and let stupidity sit on the fence and 
pity us. Then will we laugh and mock that wisdom 
which is always serious. 


THE PRELUDE. 


19 


It is better to answer than sneer; to point out the 
error than to take shelter behind the charge of envy. 
Men think they are envied when they only excite 
derision and contempt. Let no man whose follies 
are pointed out think that envy guided the pen. No 
sane man envies the counterfeit, the sham, the pre¬ 
tender, and the genuine and true give no room for 
ridicule and satire. 

A secret of writing is to get on, to move forward; 
not to waste strength in weighing words and bal¬ 
ancing sentences until the thought is lost. Many 
who can talk well cannot write. The pen benumbs 
them. The pen is cold; it gives no applause; and 
that the speaker needs, or his words freeze on his lips. 
Criticism will object that I have no stem around 
which my thoughts cling, no branch upon which my 
thoughts hang, as grapes cluster and fruit grows. I 
have no cultivated vineyard; the fruit I gather grows 
along the highways which the feet of man tread. It 
is not as round and fair as the hot-house products or 
those of the well-tilled fields, but it has flavor of its 
own. It will not suit all palates; they who feed on 
intellectual dainties may not be pleased. Then the 
thought is dropped, as the thread of a careless weaver, 
to be picked up in a subsequent page. This will 
make uneven cloth; indeed, it will leave the piece 
unfinished, for the thread joins another fabric. All 
this is true. I am just that careless a workman ; and 
my work must be of just that less value. I shall put 
upon the reader the burden of joining the pieces 


20 


THE PRELUDE. 


together. Perchance the pieces will not fit, one 
thought will not agree with another thought; then 
have I imposed upon the reader a task I could not 
successfully perform; and the duty is upon me, if it 
be a duty. Yet the instruments we have for discov¬ 
ering the truth are faulty. We are near-sighted, and 
sometimes blind,—blind from passion and prejudice. 
We see but one side of truth, then again we think 
we see another; thus are our writings inconsistent. 
He only is always consistent who sees but one side. 
We may truly portray life as seen from one moun¬ 
tain of vision; yet if we stood upon the hill yonder, 
we would see a strange difference. A young girl 
once asked me whether we should always speak the 
truth, whether deception was never justifiable. There 
seemed to be but one answer. Yet her queries as to 
exceptions were not so easily answered. The query 
whether the inquirer is always entitled to the truth 
may admit of doubt. For the practical purposes of 
life such inquiries are of no value. I question the 
value of deception as I question the value of war, 
and do not believe that any permanent good has ever 
come to man from either. Both may present a shorter 
road, but truth and peace lead by a safer and better 
way. 

A sentence of power has claws, sharp and strong, 
which fasten in the memory. If it glides along, 
taking no hold, it is weak; still, it may be a serpent 
leaving slime in its track. 


THAT WHICH SOOTHES THE WRITER. 


I N the ambitious projects of my youth, in its 
schemes and deceiving visions, a book written 
by me never appeared in my hopes or my dreams. 
It would have given me great joy if I had thought 
myself capable of one. Yet here I am writing a 
third book. I looked to my profession and to public 
life for all of the honor I could achieve, for all of the 
good I could do. Both are unsatisfying,—the one in 
its results, the other in its methods and results. I 
know that which I have written has brought both 
strength and comfort; that there are readers who 
care to read that which I have written. That knowl¬ 
edge has filled my mind with a peace, a content 
which no other labor has given me. I know of no 
flattery so soothing as to have your words quoted by 
others, to know that your thoughts are interwoven 
with the thoughts of your readers. It renews our 
youth to have the young imbibe and live over our 
recorded experience. 


21 



THE PLAYER AND THE PIPE. 


HE soul plays upon the brain as the player 



-L upon the reed. The breath is the same ; yet 
sometimes it is music, then discord. Is it the fault 
of the player or of the pipe ? It is the instrument 
which is in fault. Its defect or perfection produces 
vice or good. The breath which brings forth the 
sound is unsullied. 


22 



MUST WE HAVE A BELIEF? 


I WRITE for no creed or belief, yet do I mock 
none. I respect every man’s effort for a higher 
life. I can see in no sincere form of worship food 
for mirth or ridicule, though I may for sadness when 
I think I see delusion or deception. My plea is not 
for unbelief, but for belief in the truth. 

Must we believe something ? Must we have some 
creed, some form of worship? We are to believe 
in the truth, not falsehood. There is no gain in be¬ 
lieving falsehood. And we must know it is true 
before we are called upon to believe. It is consid¬ 
ered a reproach to be without a belief; it is a greater 
reproach to profess to believe when we do not. 
Men have always tried to force their dogmas, creeds, 
and speculations upon other men. To accomplish 
this they have threatened and persecuted. They 
have persecuted not because men did wrong, but 
because they believed wrong,—that is, refused the 
belief of the persecutor. Personal abuse and de¬ 
traction have taken the place of the stake and the 
fire, but the spirit of persecution remains. Ostracism 
supplies destruction. 

Nor yet should men believe falsehood till truth 

2 3 



24 


THE IDEALIST. 


appear, or be made manifest, for the sake of having a 
belief. Falsehood is no benefiting companion. Her 
company comforts not, protects not. She can only 
bring sorrow and lead to destruction. She is not in¬ 
nocent. Nothing but truth is innocent. There are no 
harmless delusions. No one is deceived into a better 
life. And no man is to be abused because he chooses 
to wait. Conquest and force teach not. Man is in¬ 
tolerant. He allows no difference of opinion. He 
never reasons if he can strike. When he does rea¬ 
son, it is not an answer he seeks; it is acceptance. 
Yet it is not wisdom to sow doubts if we are not 
sure certainties will spring up. Man is only groping. 
And, as blind men, we should forbear if we run 
against each other in our search for truth. 

In conclusion, I repeat that truth does not need the 
crutches of delusion, mystery, or fable. Intelligence 
is not to keep ignorance in order by teaching that 
which intelligence does not believe. Lasting order 
cannot be obtained by falsehood. The conquering 
army of order is marshalled by truth. 


THE BEST LIFE LEAVES THE LEAST. 


T HE kindest life leaves the least. It leaves a 
fragrance, nothing more. Injustice to the 
living creates the “ charity” of the “ last will and 
testament.” The cement which joins the marble of 
its building is made from human tears. If we knew 
how the vast fund was gathered we would see mis¬ 
ery in every million. Man’s debt is to the living. 
He owes none to the unborn. To him they are the 
dead. It is the toil of the living which has heaped up 
his wealth. It is the living who have brought him 
comfort. Whatever he has had of joy, they gave it. It 
is they who have the only claim upon him. To them 
it is a duty, to the other a gift. We cannot with¬ 
hold from the living without wrong; we may have 
nothing for the future without injustice. Human 
pride revolts at the taint of charity, and such every 
human being feels it to be who has its badge upon 
him. We see only the charity child, who is happy 
in its ignorance, who knows not how heavy in after¬ 
years the recollection of this charity will be. 


B 


3 


25 



THE SNOWS OF WINTER UPON THE 

PAGE. 


S we grow older the power to write in certain di- 



rections dries up. Do other powers take their 
place ? Surely a more accurate view of life is given. 
We are less likely to be deceived. We better know 
the human heart, and, alas! I fear we think the less 
of it. We have more of pity, less of admiration. 
Does not the suggestiveness dry up ? The topics 
become scarcer. The world does not impress as it 
did. There is a lack of vividness. The step is surer, 
because the writer seeks for firmer ground. The 
world needs the writings of both. Age is not always 
impressed with the writings of years, and youth is 
not repelled by the thoughts of experience. The 
head with the garlands of youth upon it will bend in 
rapture over the book from which she shakes the 
snows of life. It is not chilling to her. The old do 
not love the falling snow. It seems to drop upon 
their tombs. Joyous youth alone sees beauty in it. 
The young can bear spoken truth better than the 
aged. They fear less the face of sorrow or death. 
If I could, I would write only for the young. I care 
not to write for the old. Yet I repent me of that 
sentence. If I can give age a joy, will I not do it? 
Surely I will, and it will make rny own heart gladder. 



THE SNOWS OF WINTER UPON THE PAGE. 2J 

The breath of the young is sweet, and therefore we 
love the incense of it. The young will bring flowers, 
sing joyous songs, and dance with light feet. Age 
cannot. These rewards mark the approval of the 
young. If a book contain one new thought, that 
book is worthy to have been written. Nay, if it 
contain an old thought in a new and attractive dress, 
oblivion may not carry it off. We think the taste 
for fantastic titles is peculiar to our own age. Yet it 
is not so. Burton, in his “ Anatomy of Melancholy,” 
writes: “ However, it is a kind of policy in these 
days to prefix a fantastical title to a book which is to 
be sold, for, as larks come down to a day-net, many 
vain readers will tarry and stand gazing like silly 
passengers at an antic picture in a painter’s shop, 
that will not look at a judicious piece.” This was 
written more than two and a half centuries ago. 
The complaint is still the same. Booksellers must 
have “ catching” titles, because the gullible readers 
can only be caught by that sort of bait. Thus we 
have strange, impious, and impure titles. The writer 
who is true to his fellow-men will not give the child 
of his imagination a name which it is a shame for it 
to bear. Nor will he write that which is worthy such 
a name. The fantastic titled books of Burton’s day 
have not come down to us. They have been lost, as 
will be their counterfeits of the present day. Why 
is it that some of the most loathsome fiction of our 
times has been written by women ? Who can answer 
the question ? I will not comment upon the fact. 


THE TORTURE OF ACCUMULATION. 



HE torture of accumulation is its uncertain 


JL tenure. It must be yielded up. It fears all, 
because it knows not who may want a part. I have 
seen the man of wealth shrink from his fellow-men, 
for they might seek loans or gifts. I have seen him 
grow smaller as his possessions grew larger; more 
lonely, as his deeds and shares and bonds piled 
around him. No fortress of stone ever shut out the 
enemy as these walls of paper shut out humanity. 

Great fortunes are never obtained by the higher 
faculties of the human soul; always by the lowest; 
seldom innocent; mostly grovelling and debasing. 
No man grows better as he grows richer. 


28 



THE STORY OF EDEN. 


T HE story of the Garden of Eden is founded upon 
the depths of human experience; woman suffers 
not only for her own sins, but for man’s. Let any 
woman truly tell the story of her life, and if she has 
passed her youth but one step, it is a tale of sorrow. 
A deep melancholy is at the bottom of her heart. Man 
has hope; woman seems to have none. Therefore 
is her eye more fixedly set on the world beyond. 
Therefore does she live in her children, and forgets 
herself as no man will or can. The joy of her youth 
is mostly gratified vanity,—the incense that comes 
from admiration. Every man thinks when a woman 
admires him she shows her good sense; it is only 
when she admires another man that she shows her 
folly. 


3* 


29 





ROMANCE LIVES NOT WITH CONTENT. 


C ONTENT grows fat and smothers Romance. 

Juliet spoke her words of love from the balcony, 
with the stars for witnesses. Comfort digs the grave 
of Love, though it may build the home of affection. 
Love needs bolts and bars. It hates the open door 
when opened by another hand, and the closed door 
when another shuts it. Plenty writes the prose of 
life; need, its poetry. It is for this that romancists 
have found so fertile a field in the Gypsies’ life. The 
sweetest stories of the opera are founded upon it. 

As the bird has wings, so will it fly. It cannot 
creep. So the winged soul would fly. The “ good” 
of earth contents it not. The impulse of the human 
soul, which we call romance, is the fluttering of its 
wings as it tries to soar above the earth. Its wings 
are too weak; it flutters and falls. 


30 



HATE HAS NO STATUTE OF LIMITA¬ 
TIONS. 


H ATE has no statute of limitations. Man’s laws, 
more politic than his memory, are merciful, 
and bar actions and stop indictments by the lapse 
of time; but no time bars hate or the memory of 
wrong. They live to follow him whom the bank¬ 
rupt court has freed or the statute of limitations 
protects. Laws cannot change, though they may 
check the vengeful recollection. Hate is immortal, 
though law may forgive. The law stays the hand; 
but it does not change the heart which asks why 
should it forgive ? Time does not cure the wrong. 
It may deepen the poverty which the wrong pro¬ 
duced. Statutes of limitation are politic, not just. 
They are said to be “statutes of repose.” They hide 
the tumult; they do not calm it. Wrongs become 
traditions, the heir-looms of families; not calmed 
by time, but magnified by it. Nature will not be 
forced. Memory will remain though the statute- 
book speaks repose. 


31 



WOMAN’S MONEY. 


N O man gains by woman’s money when it comes 
over the altar. It shames and paralyzes; it 
deforms and cripples. It is a weight to crush, not 
wings to bear upward. It puts cords on his limbs 
and bands on his arms. It dampens exertion and 
destroys self-respect. It carries contempt with it. 
The honors which it may force soon perish, for they 
are placed upon his head, not bound by his own 
hands. The world sneers as it sees him borne aloft 
by it, for it deems it neither of him nor of his blood. 

A wife’s money makes the servitor and the dwarf. 
A man must dominate or be dwarfed. If he serves, 
he cannot walk erect. The imprisoned spirit will 
shrivel, be the walls of stone or gold. 


32 





FREE LIBRARIES PAUPERIZING CHARITY. 


YANE of the forms by which vanity proposes to 
pauperize the people is by founding free libra¬ 
ries. This country does not need them. The want 
is not the book, but the reader. The man who 
desires a good book will find a way to get it by his 
own industry. He will reject it as a gift. Such a 
library may circulate fiction and its poison, but it 
will not circulate good books. 

Make a library free, and you close its doors to the 
self-respecting. After degrading the toiler by narrow 
wages do not further degrade him by “ charities.” 
Be just, and you will have but little to leave for pau¬ 
perizing “ charity.” We would see this land covered 
with homes and not with vast buildings called “chari¬ 
ties,”—institutions where the vanity of the founder 
has provided means to sap all that is noble from the 
human heart, and to brand the forehead with the 
crushing word “ charity.” Not the charity of which 
Paul writes, but the charity by which vanity decks 
the products of greed and oppression. 


c 


33 



THE KING OF DROSS. 


H E never dried a tear. He caused many, not by 
his death, but by his life. Nothing died with 
him, for his personality had no value. He took with 
him only his shroud and coffin. The spot of earth 
which covers him will in time be planted over; so 
that will not be lost. No man grasped his hand 
unless he thought he touched gold in the palm. 
Death did that which man could not do,—it opened 
that hand. His house had the gloom of a dungeon, 
for there was no friendly greeting heard within its 
walls. He suspected every man, and perhaps with 
justice, for he knew he had won no love. 



HURT SELF. 


I T is the cry of wounded self-love we utter, when 
we think it is only its ugly manifestation in 
others, which the self-valuing are manifesting, that 
we are condemning. He has put himself above us. 
This is his true offence; and in his self-admiration 
and self-love has forgotten us. We think we are 
putting down unwarranted self-assertion, when we 
are only raising up prostrated and wounded self-love. 
It is self which shakes the finger of admonition and 
councils humility. Many a good man’s warning 
would not have been given, save that he thought he 
was forgotten. The offender has forgotten our supe¬ 
riority and asserted his own. His self-assertion im¬ 
plies superiority, and that we cannot forgive. It is 
our pride which needs reduction, and not his pre¬ 
sumption. In the bottom of many a homily wounded 
self wriggles. Many a denunciation is sharpened 
by the pain of hurt self-love. 

I heard a pastor tearfully and bitterly condemning 
the younger portion of his flock. I inquired the 
cause, and found it had no just basis. It was his 
self-love which had been stricken, and so the con¬ 
demned felt it, and so they resented it. They had 

35 



3^ 


THE IDEALIST. 


forgotten, or refused to consider him their master. 
They consulted their own judgments. He did not 
know that it was mortified self, and not true counsel, 
which spoke. If self was reduced the volume of 
advice would be reduced to the increased value of 
the advice. Self muddies the water, which to be 
good should be clear. 


THE DREAMER AND THE ACTOR. 


rHE man of action follows the man of thought. 

The man of thought points the way. They 
call him a dreamer; yet follow him. A critic, in 
commenting upon something I had written, says, 
I have a contempt for “ literary men” or, as they are 
otherwise called, “ men of letters.” I have disclaimed 
the title of a literary man, perhaps very unnecessarily. 
I divide useful men not as men of action and men 
of letters, but I change the latter appellation to men 
of thought. Letters, unless they express thoughts, 
are meaningless signs. 

As a pursuit “ letters” produce but little. No 
man can command thought, but the “ man of letters” 
may command words. Thoughts burst from their 
hiding-place; words may be called. Thought has 
no master; words are slaves. If the “ man of letters” 
does not wait upon thought before he writes, his 
writings are valueless. And in the active world, not 
in the closet, is thought to be found. Other men’s 
thoughts are there; your own in the marts of life. 
Thinkers indeed! To think you must move; you 
must touch humanity,—not look at it through a 
glass. I have before said that he who writes for 

4 37 



33 


THE IDEALIST. 


bread has not time to wait upon thought. Thought 
may come to him, but it often hides, and refuses to 
be bidden. The writer must have time to gather 
fresh chips, if he would light a fire which will warm 
the reader’s heart. He cannot build a fire from an 
empty basket. He will get but dust if he continue 
to rake among the ashes of burned-out fires. He 
must have newly-cut chips. 


THE TEAR NOT THE ARGUMENT. 


R EASON may drive out a religious belief; it can 
never lead to one. Reason makes apostates, 
not converts. It cannot reach the spiritual world. 
Childish remembrance or touched emotions can alone 
do that. It is the tear, not the argument, which 
moves. The cry from the heart of the sin-laden 
reaches and touches the cords of the soul, which 
move not to the hand of controversy. Argument 
stops the ear which love opens. There is more in 
the song than the sermon, in the sigh of the broken 
heart than in the clash of creeds. Reason never 
spread a creed; force or sentiment alone makes 
proselytes. We may reason of that which we can 
see and touch, but the invisible communes only with 
the invisible, responds only to that which is beyond 
reason. Appeal to the eye, the ear, the emotions, to 
prejudice or to hate, to interest, if you would make 
converts to a creed, never to reason. I cannot believe 
any man has ever been reasoned out of the creed of 
his childhood through the arguments of another 
creed. Reason may lead him to abandon it, but 
never to adopt another. It is the heart, not the head, 
which makes religious converts. By the heart I 

39 



40 


THE IDEALIST. 


mean the centre of the emotions; by the head, the 
seat of reason. Nothing is more wearisome than to 
hear a man attempt to prove the truth of his creed. 
The unchanging laws of right and wrong may be 
proved ; beliefs, never. Therefore all forms of relig¬ 
ious belief have need to call upon faith; faith which 
excludes reason. I was about to write human reason, 
but that would be cant. We know no reason save 
human reason. We can comprehend no other, if it 
was “revealed” to us. We have a revelation, but we 
must turn the eye inward to read it. It is written 
on the soul. It is there God writes. He does not 
write with the pen or in books, and He has commis¬ 
sioned no man to write for Him. I decline to take 
any man’s interpretation of His will. He gave me 
to see, and I will look with my own eyes. I abhor 
the mental slavery in which men have tried to bind 
their fellow-men; chains stronger than ever forged 
from iron. It is terrible to me to see the efforts 
men are making to encircle their fellow-men by 
dogmas as with a flame of fire, by creeds which 
bind and cut. It is a presumption which to me is 
incomprehensible. They undertake to speak for God, 
and tell us His will. No wonder their speech differs, 
and that their conflicts have drenched the earth with 
blood. God demands no man’s blood. The cry of 
the tortured gratified cruel men; it could not please 
God. His will never demanded force. And no war 
which this world has ever seen was fit to be prayed 
over. It is impossible that it should have benefited 


THE TEAR NOT THE ARGUMENT. 


41 


man. God never asked His servants to bring Him 
blood. Human blood can dye no crown of glory. 
Man’s blood is sacred. A willing soldier cannot be 
a follower of Jesus of Nazareth. It may be that the 
teachings of the Nazarene are too high for a man; 
that man cannot reach them. Sure it is he never has 
reached them. The Christian has no “ god of battles 
that god perished with the gods of Mount Olympus, 
and struck his tent with the camp of the Israelites. 
He blesses no Christian banner of war. Kneeling 
troops mock the Christian’s God. They cannot 
worship Him. 


4* 


MEN’S SPEECHES OF THE LIVING AND 

OF THE DEAD. 



HE living are better than men’s speeches; the 


-L dead did not equal them. Envy distorts the 
one, pity exaggerates the other. If the living lawyer 
could have the reputation in life the speeches of his 
brethren give him in death, he would not lack clients 
or fees. The community learn of his ability when 
they can no longer employ him. Had they heard in 
time to test it, they would have found it mostly false. 


42 



THE FLECK OF SUNSHINE. 


I STOOPED to pick a fleck off my clothing. It 
moved. It was a spot of sunshine. By the 
movement I lost it. I did not know it was sunshine 
till it was gone. The sunshine goes out of the 
house. It was not recognized till darkness came. 


43 



THE NARROWING OF ONE STUDY. 


N illustration of the narrowing influence of de- 



-Gjl votion to a single study is the deep interest an 
old lawyer takes in some point of law which scarce 
rises above a technicality,—one which can have no 
influence for good upon humanity and is of no im¬ 
portance in settling men’s rights or checking wrong; 
a question which a few more revolutions of reason 
and experience will consign to everlasting forgetful¬ 
ness ; yet, to our cobweb friend, its threatened over¬ 
throw, or the slow but sure departure from it, is a 
matter of deepest moment. He will tell you that in 
such a case it first was doubted, and in another de¬ 
nied. He will call the judge hard names who first 
questioned it, and he will deplore the danger of its 
final uprooting and extinction. Perhaps the judge 
let in a little light from the world beyond the veil 
which artificial law had drawn. He may have used a 
little natural reasoning, overthrowing some non-nat¬ 
ural reasoning. His ruling may not injure a human 
being; yet to the lawyer who has toiled to know this 
principle, as he calls it, which it has trenched upon 
or overthrown, it seems as though some right of the 
people had been taken away. To him the law is an 


44 



THE NARROWING OF ONE STUDY. 45 

abstraction, a problem, a science, and not a granary 
of stored principles to be taken from, added to, and 
used as human affairs require. We are pained to 
find our “ learning” useless,—to have the progress 
of human thought and the result of human experi¬ 
ence reduce it to idle words. Much that was thought 
law “ learning” when I was a student is in the law’s 
waste-basket now, and justice is the gainer by it. It 
simply blocked the way to the knowledge of the 
truth, yet I have no doubt there are musty souls who 
mourn its loss. They wish this dust to remain upon 
the law, and they abuse the work which has brushed 
it off, for there is not a speck of it which they do not 
deem sacred. Perhaps there are others who brush 
so violently as to tear the garment. Human law is 
not an abstraction for its professors to wrangle about; 
it is a thing of life for living men. 


WHAT OUR FRIENDS WOULD GIVE US. 


I F we got but that to which the world and our 
friends think we are entitled, our portion would 
be scant. The payment of their deservings would 
leave to us only the mouldy crumbs. Those who 
get more, snatch it, and the sense of the injustice of 
this spirit adds to grasping greed. “ They would give 
me nothing; I will take all.” And its very injustice 
spreads it like a plague. What would be a man’s 
fate if his friends could marry him to one “ who is 
good enough for him” ? If they could bind upon 
him burdens which they think he ought to bear, how 
heavy would be his load ? In either event he would 
have but one escape from utter woe,—the grave. It 
is this trait of our nature which makes most personal 
advice so valueless. The adviser thinks so little of 
us. His advice mortifies and creates resentment. 
Thus the pen advises better than the tongue, and the 
general counsel is more potent than the personal. 


) 


46 



VIVISECTED AND DISSECTED. 



NE of the penalties of fame is to be vivisected 


and finally dissected,—to be weighed in false 
scales. The humble, rest; the great are torn to pieces. 
Their character is the subject of angry, never-ending 
discussion. A great author frequently regrets that 
he did not stay in the humble place in which he was 
born, regrets that he ever wrote a line. His fame 
and influence brought him no compensation for the 
wounds his enemies gave him. 

A certain President of the United States, who had 
been a teacher in his youth, told a delegation of 
teachers that the happiest period of his life was when 
he was a teacher. I have no doubt he felt it true, 
yet when he was a teacher he longed to escape it. 
It was youth he sighed for, not the ferule. He felt 
that his honors were tawdry in comparison with those 
the eye of youth saw. Bright youth, I regret thee 
when I hear the music of the dance and remember 
it plays no more for me. Nevermore will my feet 
beat time to thy joyous strains. When years come, 
men struggle to catch a phantom called fame. One 
joyous dance of youth is worth all such dreams. 

Here I am to-night toiling, writing, and for what ? 


47 



48 


THE IDEALIST. 


What is it to me if men and women read me ? What 
is it to me if they do not ? I but dream. There is 
no flesh and blood near me; no human eye looking 
over me. And the eye which reads this page I will 
not see. I feel like throwing down my pen and re¬ 
peating, “All is vanity.” Yet with strange incon¬ 
sistency will I toil on, writing that which I hope 
men and women will read, and remember him who 
wrote it. 


THE CYNIC. 


W HO is the cynic? Not the indifferent man, 
who says all is well because it touches him 
not. He will not take the trouble to bark, so long as 
his house is not invaded. He will not snap at the in¬ 
truder upon other men’s rights. The cynic does not 
run with the mob, to be absorbed in it, to lose his 
identity. He who runs with the mob shows that he 
is but part of it. They shout because others shout; 
they condemn because others condemn. They make 
the food of tyrants. Is it cynicism to say that no 
man has the right to link his name with the renowned 
dead unless there be some bond between his life and 
their memory, unless his memory will be linked with 
theirs by his works ? It is not for him to put up the 
stained glass or the carved memorial in his name if 
genius has not joined their names. Why should he 
who has never given to the world one thought asso¬ 
ciate his name with the dead whose thoughts yet 
live ? Does his gold give him authority to do this ? 
He cannot do it: his name will not entwine. He 
cannot honor the great dead. He must have written 
thought which will entwine with their thoughts. The 
dead cannot resent. The living would. He who 
C d 5 49 



5o 


THE IDEALIST. 


joins his name with the memory of the dead must 
be of the same spirit. None but those with souls 
akin must join living hands with the memories of 
the dead. What will be this intruder’s monument? 
Will it be his works or purchased marble ? 

Some pity the dead because no marble marks the 
spot where their bones rest. The pity should be for 
those who need marble to keep the world from for¬ 
getting them. The great soul is not ennobled by the 
chiselled marble. Monuments are a detraction from 
true greatness. They speak as though they were 
needed to bar out oblivion. If there be no memory 
with the monument, the marble will not create or 
perpetuate it. Works, not carved stones, rescue the 
man from the night of the grave. 


MORTIFIED VANITY IN SEEMING 
OBEDIENCE. 


W HEN a public servant deems himself so wise 
as to be above criticism, that is just the time 
he needs it most, and he is sure to get it. It may 
come from an official superior, and bring anger with 
it, and resistance. He will not yield to the justice 
of the criticism, but will try and break its force by 
making false deductions from it. He will open the 
sluices of vice to show the public that his opinions 
shut the gates,—that it is his superiors who have 
opened them. But let him be assured the public will 
see mortified vanity peering through the seeming 
obedience. He is not a fair disputant who draws un¬ 
warranted deductions from his antagonist’s premises. 
He is not a faithful official who falsely construes his 
superior’s reversal of his acts, to make that superior 
odious in the eyes of the public. The odium will 
fall upon him who “perverts judgment.” 


Si 



IMMORTAL BY SATIRE. 


S ATIRE penetrates where reason only blunts its 
edge. It will go through that pride which 
wraps so close as to leave no aperture for reason to 
enter. It cuts its way. Reason often envelops in a 
fog, while satire is the sunshine which reveals. It is 
a dangerous weapon, for malice may sharpen it, and 
hatred unsheathe it. Satire finds more readers than 
wisdom, yet wisdom may lurk in satire and dulness 
surround wisdom. The public speaker who com¬ 
mands it will never want for a full house. Pleasure 
from the sight of pain did not die when the Roman 
amphitheatre ceased to drink human blood. He who 
would shrink from physical cruelty delights in the 
torture which satire inflicts. It gives power but hin¬ 
ders advancement. No man who has it but prizes 
it, though every shaft multiplies his enemies. He 
would rather be feared than loved. Satire will not 
let the victim die. Names live for scorn made im¬ 
mortal by satire. 


52 




THE BREATHED NAME. 



O man can tell why the public favor lifted him 


T ^ up, or why its forgetfulness obscured him. 
He simply awakes from a dream, and finds darkness 
around him where before was light. However bright 


the dream, he will awake to find it vanish out of his 


sight. The public knows him no more, though once 
his name was on every tongue. They but breathed 
his name, and the breath joined the surrounding air 
and was lost in it. The name dissipated. I speak 
of the name men give, not the name which work 
creates. 

The spirit of the reader colors the writings. Where 
one reader sees self, another will see sadness. Where 
one sees bitterness, another will see but the sorrowful, 
yet true, portraiture of man. Where one sees hate, 
the other will see only the scorn of greed and oppres¬ 
sion. One reader catches the step of the writer and 
walks easily with him, the other misunderstands him 
and lags behind. Envy blinds the eyes of one reader, 
while sympathy opens the understanding of the other. 
Blessed is that spirit which is free from envy,—that 
malignant critic. Envy prevents the approval of the 
friend who cannot forgive the success. 


53 



54 


THE IDEALIST. 


You write a book, you perform some work, and 
you look for approval, yet it comes not where you 
expected it. It comes from where you never turned 
the eye of expectation. It may come from where 
you expected depreciation, or, at best, indifference. 
But what a compensation for your toil when you find 
you have touched a heart and perhaps influenced a 
life that you knew not of when you wrote! 

A friend of an author, himself a beautiful writer, 
called one day upon his friend, and said, “ I threw 
your last book upon the table, the other morning, 
and when I came home in the evening I found my 
young daughter had been reading it with the greatest 
interest. She repeated to me passages from it, and 
asked me of the author.” For she had no knowl¬ 
edge of him. He told her the story of the author as 
far as he knew it. 

She had caught the very spirit of that writer, and 
as her appreciative criticisms reached his ear, it gave 
him a joy which no flattering comments from learned 
writers ever did. The fewer the years, the nearer to 
heaven, unless the spirit of childhood remains; and 
the lonely, sad writer prayed that sweet spirit might 
ever continue to dwell with her,—that the world 
might never take it from her. 


AGE’S REFUGE. 


W HEN a man or woman finally recognizes and 
acquiesces in the fact that they are “ old,” 
they have acquired a knowledge and taken a step of 
great moment to their comfort. It is the transition 
state, the uncertain stage, which is so uncomfortable 
when we think we are young and others know we 
are not,—for it is a discovery which the voyager, not 
the inhabitant, makes. It comes to us from infor¬ 
mation, not from intuition. We learn we are old 
from the lips of men, for we will not believe the 
voice of nature. Nature may speak loud, but we 
misinterpret her. Her voice may tell us the infirmity 
is permanent; vanity, self-delusion tell us it is but 
transitory. But the voice of men and the voice of 
nature must at last convince us we are “ old.” Then 
the struggle ceases, and we have quiet. I do not 
wish to write detraction, yet I doubt whether any 
woman ever admitted to herself that she was no 
longer personally attractive. This most absolute 
power, whose tyranny knows no rebels; its loss is 
death. Beauty and life acknowledge no destruction, 
for death is silent. The delusion that whispers into 
the ear of aged vanity, it is as strong, as lovely as it 

55 



56 


THE IDEALIST. 


ever was, fills the world with silly age,—the most 
wearisome of all life’s stages. Foolish youth may 
grow wise ; witless age, never. 

The world hurries us on to age; it will not wait 
for years. Whenever a man speaks of another’s age, 
he adds years. This is to lessen him, to intimate 
that for his years he should have done more. “ Is 
it possible I look as old as he ?” is the startled 
query. “Can I look as haggard as he?” Yes, my 
friend, years have left their stamp. You have not 
been a nursling in nature’s arms. You are as other 
men. She has no pets. She may fondle for awhile, 
but she is impartial at last. Before I reached forty, 
I thought that the most hateful figure in life’s history. 
Youth bidding a final farewell, and age stretching 
out its ugly hand. We refuse both. We will not 
part from the one; we will not embrace the other. 
Yet we find retrospect darkening prospect. Work 
for others is age’s refuge; there alone will peace be 
found, work which will survive the grave. 


WORSHIP FROM SELFISHNESS. 


'''HE most selfish are often the most devout,— 
-*■ that is, most given to devotion. They wor¬ 
ship to placate their Deity,—that he may do them 
no harm or do them good. Their selfishness fills 
them with fear for themselves, and their worship 
springs from it. They desire and assume that special 
care will be taken of them. They are cruel, exact¬ 
ing, hard, and oppressive to their fellow-men; but, 
then, they bow low the knee, and lift their eyes 
with reverence. Their bitterness to crime is because 
of some joy they think there is in it which they are 
losing. They hate the man whom they think is get¬ 
ting it. There is in them an appetite for evil which 
fear alone checks. Their religion is hate; and no 
punishment is too great for him who has the joy of 
sin. They have a taste for it, and they hate the man 
who revels where they would if they dare. If they 
are restrained by surroundings, or interest, or some 
other selfish motives, they are remorseless. They 
consider not weakness, lack of training and teaching; 
the criminal has tasted iniquity and they have not. 
They have lost a delight, and they would make 
equality by punishment. They rejoice to think the 
seed will bear a harvest. It was one of them who 
complained that the man of the eleventh hour like¬ 
wise received a penny. They envy the sinner. 

57 



THE MARTYRS OF THOUGHT. 


HY is it we do not miss a person who has 



been long sick or who is dead ? and should 


we reproach ourselves that we do not ? We are told 
that he was long ill, and now he is dead. Then, for 
the first time, we call to mind that we had not seen 
him for a long time. Yet we respected, if we did not 
love, him. There is the test: we respected him, but 
we took no interest in him. When we met him we 
felt kindly to him, we spoke to him, passed him, and 
forgot him. Now that he is gone, we remember his 
smile was always cordial, his words friendly, and a 
pang of regret strikes us that we should have so 
utterly forgotten him. But should we condemn 
ourselves? Was there any reason why we should 
miss him ? No: for there was nothing to suggest 
him to our minds. Our thoughts are occupied with 
matters which concern us. The passing acquaint¬ 
ance has no dwelling-place there. There was no 
link which joined this person with us. Perhaps after 
his death, for the first time, you hear of his early 
struggles, of his hard fortune, and a touch of sym¬ 
pathy sweeps over you. Had you known this when 
he was living, you would have watched him with 



THE MARTYRS OF THOUGHT. 


59 


more interest. Now you feel that his life was broken; 
and you ask yourself the question, Would more 
years have shown a greater growth, or did he fill the 
measure of his destiny? He left neither fame nor 
works. He joined the countless millions, as must all 
men, save the unhappy few who blaze and light in 
pain, like unto the burning martyrs in Nero’s gardens. 
The martyrs of restless, consuming thought. 


MEMORY’S WORDS. 


H E said, Suppose, sister, since our mother left us, 
two babes, she has been watching over us 
from the spirit-land. Suppose she took with her 
mother-love, that it did not die, but went with her, 
immortal as her spirit. Suppose she saw there was 
no love for us on earth. Suppose she saw that she 
who took her place had no love for her babes, that 
she felt that we were in her way. Suppose she saw 
the father’s heart turn from us and all his love fall 
upon the other’s brood. Would she reproach your 
brother if she saw his heart become stone and an 
implacable hate fill it, hate which gathered force as 
years rolled over him, which memory would not 
let die ? Perhaps it falls upon the innocent, per¬ 
haps he is unjust; but will he not be forgiven when 
it is considered the wrong which has been done us ? 
It has given a coloring to life,—has darkened it. In 
those early years a fountain of bitterness was opened, 
and death alone can stop the gushing of its waters. 
Then do not reproach him, dear sister. Heaven has 
given you a more forgiving, a gentler spirit. He 
cannot forget. He will not forgive. Men and 

women may reproach him. He knows his own 
60 



MEMORY'S WORDS . 


61 


heart, they do not. Your wrongs were as great as 
his, but you cover them with charity. He cannot. 
As he writes these words, the mood to write was 
upon him, the waters overflowed. I may for him 
strike the words out and not let the world see them. 
Yet I think I will not. Daylight may repent me of 
these midnight words, but I will let them stand as 
warning. Bruise not the young heart. Oh, I am so 
weary of cant and hypocrisy! Heaven will be a 
place of truth,—white-robed truth. Why have you 
left the earth, or did you ever dwell here ? I have 
seen the wicked face behind the holy mask. 


6 


FORTUNE’S SCORN FOR HER FAVORITES. 


ORTUNE despises her favorites. She gilds 



i- them, and then mocks them. She rarely gives 
them beauty or brains. When she showers gold, she 
withholds every other gift. When she gives ribbons 
and garters, stars and titles, she forgets to give per¬ 
sonal charms or mental power. She reserves these 
gifts for those for whom she has neither inherited 
gold nor title. Toil may acquire all of these; then 
it is toil, not fortune, which brings them. 

I have seen the young spendthrift, who has just 
attained his majority, seize his portion with the same 
eager hands and gloating eyes with which his labori¬ 
ous ancestor counted it over as the fruit of his toil or 
of his cunning,—the one to spend, the other to hoard, 
but with equal selfish spirit. The ancestor had not 
and the heir will not have one dollar for humanity, 
unless it minister to the appetites of the one or comes 
back with gain to the hoard of the other. The son and 
the father are the same: it is but different sides we 
see. The miser and the spendthrift are from the same 
stock: it is self manifested in different lights. The 
son learns the lesson of greed : it is in its application 
alone he differs from his tutor. I have seen noble 


62 



FORTUNE'S SCORN FOR HER FAVORITES. 63 

men painfully weigh the value of every dollar, and 
wretches ugly as sin in mind and body waste with¬ 
out limit. Fortune must lift them up in scorn to 
show men how valueless are her gifts. As I have 
written the above I have kept steadily in my eye the 
specimens I have seen of fortune’s favorites. Life, 
not reflection, has furnished my text. I do not 
quarrel with fortune. I have already noted that she 
keeps the balance even. No man would give his 
brains for gold; no woman would exchange her 
beauty for gold; and the “ golden calf” is content. 
He would not be a true god. 


DISROBED THOUGHT. 


O doubt the writer should be able to defend 



^ that which he has written and given to the 
world, but when the truths, as he believes them to be, 
have come from the deepest feelings of his nature, or 
have arisen to his mind from the saddest experiences 
of his life, he is unwilling to controvert about them. 
He feels he has done enough, perhaps too much, in 
dragging these children of the night into the sun¬ 
light, and allowed the world to look upon them. 
Goldsmith could have made clear every line he had 
written, if the obscurity was in the line and not the 
questioner. His inability must have been assumed. 
The writer may give to the world truth with beauti¬ 
ful drapery about it, and he feels it an indignity to 
strip off that imagery that the stupid or the unchari¬ 
table may see the unclothed thought. As he has 
dressed it and given it to the world, so he wishes it 
to remain. He will not tear off its robes, as dis¬ 
cussion would force him to do. The reader cannot 
know the difference between the sadness of the 
writer and the sadness of the writing. The sad 
writer may be a contented man: it is mental sadness 
he gives. It is as difficult to judge of the man by 
his writings as by his face. Neither are true indices. 



THE VISIONARY. 


T HE world has always loved the thief and hated 
the honest man. It fondles and pets the one 
and shuns the other. The thief is so generous, and 
the honest man, who has debts to pay, is so penurious. 
And the world loves a share of the plunder. Hon¬ 
esty is a conventional thing to write essays about 
and sometimes to preach sermons upon. The want 
of it never kept a man out of office, and the pos¬ 
session of it never put him into one. Never attack 
your enemy upon the ground that he is not honest. 
Say that he is mean and stingy, that “ he never 
spends a cent,” and you hit him where pugilists love 
to hit,—about the heart. Many admire a thief who 
dare not say so. Of course the man whose money 
he takes does not admire that particular thief. The 
thief is always “ a good fellow.” He can afford to be. 
He may violate every article of the code of honor, 
every rule which governs his profession, but he gets 
money, and the poor fool who believes in honor and 
professional or business rectitude has failure and 
poverty for his scruples. I have more than once 
said that those rules which teach that honor and 

prosperity come from honesty and just dealing are 

6* 65 


e 



66 


THE IDEALIST. 


false. The foundation of palaces is fraud, their walls 
are reared on villany. Honesty is in the poor-house 
as well as crime. Indeed, the pauper’s bed is the 
surest resting-place of honesty. There is its true 
home. The world laughs at the honest man, calls 
him an idealist, a visionary. “ Too good for this 
world,” as he most surely is. Am I writing fiction ? 
No: I am writing that which every man knows to be 
true. We keep the fictions of honesty for school¬ 
boys, to beguile them with. The professional man 
who prospers says, “ I am in my profession for money. 
Its codes of honor will not buy me fine houses and 
old wine. Let the fools of honor drink cold water, 
live in rented homes, and walk. I own the house 
in which I live, my servant drives my coach, and I 
dust the men with empty purses and honorable 
lives.” Do these delusive teachings of the moralist 
do any good ? Is there gain in fine theory and 
vicious practice ? Shall we teach that which obser¬ 
vation will surely overthrow ? 

There must be one man for whose good opinion 
each man should have the utmost reverence, if he 
would be honest himself. If he care not for his 
good opinion, then he despises the opinion of others. 
He must wish self-approval. This is the only relia¬ 
ble motive, the only citadel of honor. By the world, 
I mean public opinion,—that subtle essence which 
surrounds us every day, which influences us, or pro¬ 
vokes our scorn, according to the terms we are upon 
with ourself. Some will think I am writing sarcasm 





THE VISIONARY. 


67 


or indulging, with vain motives, in paradoxes. I am 
not. I wish to put that principle of human action 
which we call honesty upon a true foundation,—not 
success, not prosperity, not words of praise, but upon 
the esteem of self. 

“ Conquering heroes” have mostly been thieves, 
backed by murder. They differed from jailed thieves 
and hanged murderers only in their rewards. Crowns 
and chaplets decked the former, stone walls and 
gibbets awaited the latter, yet their deservings were 
equal. 


A BIZARRE BIRD. THE AMERICAN 

EXCLUSIVE. 


HERE is only one honorable way out of pov- 



erty, and that is dug by toil. There is but one 
true lever to lift you up if you are poor, whether 
your poverty be an inheritance or a misfortune,— 
work. If you have a beggar’s pride, and wrap your 
rags around you in pauper dignity, starve; I, for one, 
would let you. I share the fruits of my labor with 
no idlers, if I can help it. Labor will rarely fail to 
pull you out, no matter how many fathoms deep you 
may be sunk in ancestral mud. I am told that in 
some parts of our country, if a young man gets a 
speck of the dust of toil upon his hands the young 
women will refuse to touch those hands, for he can¬ 
not be a gentleman. Such a people cannot prosper. 
They must sink, and the sooner the waters of honest 
industry roll over them the better. A deluge would 
be a blessing. If the “ leisure class” planted flowers, 
distilled perfumes, frescoed life, they would have a 
fitting place; but it is the toiler who beautifies as 
well as sustains life. The only plant the “ leisure 
class” cultivate is insolence. They do not even cul¬ 
tivate good breeding. Good breeding respects the 


68 



A BIZARRE BIRD. 


69 


rights of all men ; this class pretends not to see the 
rights of others. A place of amusement is a democ¬ 
racy : the man who has paid for his seat has the 
right to hear the performance, and he who disturbs 
him robs him. Yet it is a practice of this “leisure 
class” to huddle together, and by their chatter to dis¬ 
turb performer and hearer alike. I was once at an 
opera, when a well-dressed man and woman, who sat 
behind me, talked all through the performance. They 
talked so loud that I heard all they said. I tried to 
fix my attention upon the performance, to forget, to 
shut my ears to the rude pair behind me, but I could 
not. At theatres where the “ common” people go 
you are not disturbed: they go to listen. Thank the 
stars which rule our fate, as of old they told us, the 
class of which I am writing are not “ common.” 
The air, the sun, the water are common; all good is 


common. 


FORGETFULNESS. 


HE family whose ancestral home is with the 



JL gods as they write its history has not made 
impression enough upon earth to place the name of 
one of them in an ordinary encyclopaedia. The 
names are plenteous enough, but their biography is 
but an aggregation of commonplace, which, united, 
makes not of greatness save in numbers. Pile the 
sand of the sea as high as the rock, yet it is not a 
rock. A quarry of gneiss will not make one diamond. 
It is a forgivable vanity which seeks to rescue from 
oblivion a name which has been borne by no dis¬ 
tinguished ancestor. Yet the attempt will fail, for 
in Time’s book of records names alone cannot be 
written. Remember that, pretentious vanity; and 
remember you cannot write them there. Your work 
must write it, else it will never be written. A history 
of a county was written ; biographies were paid for; 
and the only really great man the county ever pro¬ 
duced was not mentioned. His bank-book had been 
balanced, his check-book written out, and his hand 
was cold. What will future generations think of us 
when they find the remains of temples dedicated to 
two gods, gold and vanity ? They will say, “ Why 




FOR GE TFULNESS. 


71 


did you send down to us the fact that he made or 
sold goods to his great gain ? Had you no thinkers? 
Are these all your generations could produce ?” Still, 
we need not be concerned; future generations will not 
know them. The spider will spin his web upon the 
unturned leaves. Life loses its charms, and we would 
crown the spectre of the future. It is a headless 
spectre, and the crown falls. Yet we labor only for 
those who come after us. He builds a house, and the 
ceilings are hardly dry before he leaves it to his suc¬ 
cessor. One of the strangest works of man is the 
building of a church through hundreds of years. The 
builders do not expect to finish it. It is the same 
purpose,—to write their names upon the unstable 
waters of the future. All this looks as though man 
doubted his immortality. Why struggle so against 
forgetfulness if he was sure of life beyond the grave ? 
Why does he wish to write his name on marble, 
which must crumble, if he knew that name—that 
identity—could never die ? The question of Addi¬ 
son to Cato will bear another answer. It is the love 
of life. The man lives when he has this craving for 
eternal life. Yet have we “ hope in death.” 


THE DEVOTEE AND DEFAULTER. 


M ORALISTS in all ages have tried to show the 
folly of living for vanity. They have in¬ 
vented all sorts of maxims to impress their teach¬ 
ings. Dr. Franklin devised or copied some of the 
narrowest and most despicable of them. Let us 
hope he borrowed them and did not acknowledge 
the loan. They contain too much meanness to be 
the coinage of one man’s brain. Yet there is wisdom 
to be extracted from them, but the distillation must 
separate the poison of littleness.and utter selfishness. 
We are not alone in this world; and if we were, our 
stay would be short. And it is not true, in political 
economy more than in social life, that the injury of 
our neighbors is our benefit. And it does not differ 
whether the neighbors be the family next door or 
another nation. The character of selfishness cannot 
change because a nation manifests it. And it will 
beget its like to a nation as to an individual. 

Men with all of the appendages of respectability 
around them, including church-membership, become 
defaulters, fugitives, and suicides. Liberality, as 
giving money is sometimes called, does not prove 

integrity. Religious vanity has its spendthrifts as 
72 



THE DEVOTEE AND DEFAULTER. 73 

well as vice. I do not believe that a profession of 
piety is always assumed by the defaulter as a cloak. 
It is the turn of his mind, by which he is a devotee 
and thief with equal sincerity. He worships and 
steals from nature. No temptation, no pressure, no 
surroundings, no difficulties will induce the true man 
to take the first step in dishonesty. No excuse, no 
apology can be given or received. They are false; 
and they do well to hide their heads. But why 
should I write ? If a man is born a thief he will 
steal; he may pick a pocket or scoop out a bank; 
his face may be in the rogue’s gallery or in the costly 
pew; they are one family. 


D 


7 


OBSTINACY NOT A VIRTUE. 


BSTINACY if joined with wisdom may be a 



v_y virtue, but if linked with stupidity and igno¬ 
rance, as it generally is, it is a great hinderer of busi¬ 
ness. Men desire to be considered strong characters, 
and they think this reputation is obtained by obsti¬ 
nacy, which they mistake for firmness. An obstinate 
man is usually a weak one. He maintains his obsti¬ 
nacy by shutting his ears to reason. He thinks he 
is firm when he is simply deaf and blind. It hin¬ 
ders business by taking some unreasonable or absurd 
position, and refusing to be convinced of error be¬ 
cause of the fear that that would be a surrender of the 
“ strong character’’ which he imagines he possesses. 
There is no virtue in firmness apart from right. A 
man of “ firm convictions” puts himself in an iron 
cage. He asserts that he will never be wiser than 
he was when he adopted them,—that he has ceased 
to grow. “You have changed your opinions,” said 
a person to me, referring to some political speeches 
I had made when I was a very young man. I replied 
“ that during the years which had passed I had tried 
to study and observe, and if I had learned of no errors 
I must have been an infallible youth or a stupid stu- 


74 



OBSTINACY NOT A VIRTUE. 


75 


dent.” He thought it a reproach that I did not think 
then as I thought a quarter of a century before. If 
age brings nothing but years, those years will be 
stamped with contempt. We start with teaching; we 
should end with acquirement. It is a question how 
far the parent has the right to impress himself upon 
his child. Men are hampered through life with erro¬ 
neous teachings, and life is far spent before they can 
throw off the bands which were put upon their 
youthful limbs. He who taught his son to sacrifice 
to Jupiter had no doubt. The Mohammedan father 
questions not. So while we are taught we are bur¬ 
dened, and the world moves because men unlearn. 


THE ANGER OF MEMORY. 


HE anger of memory is immovable, because 



memory is ever present to recall. The anger 
of the moment passes with the occasion of it, but that 
which calls up the wrongs of the past will not die. 
That which arises from deliberate wrong is out of the 
pale of forgiveness. This is the anger of age, which 
overlooks the present and fastens upon the past with 
unrelenting grasp. The young do not call up past 
events to grow angry over them. And there is no 
remedy except the extinguishment of memory by 
death. Reason : charity will not drive it out. It is 
a hideous thing to have the memory a storehouse 
of skeletons, the bones of the past. To me the 
darkest problem of the spirit of evil is the hatred of 
men. A vehicle by accident touches another, and at 
once there springs up a spirit of hate so intense that 
the drivers would fly at each other’s throats but for 
fear. The bitterness of their language shows this. 
All the hate which their power of language can ex¬ 
press they pour out. The better-trained man uses 
language less coarse, but the sting of his words is 
more deadly. We think nothing of uttering a sar¬ 
casm which wounds to death, from mere vanity, and 
the world applauds the deadly thrust. 



THE ACCUSATION OF IMITATION. 



NVY has no more bitter taunt than the accusa- 


-■—' tion of imitation. She knows that no other 
suggestion will so rankle in a proud spirit,—a spirit 
which believes it is like unto itself alone. The first 
thought of likeness or similarity comes from the 
whispering speech of others. By some chance word 
he learns that he is charged with being an imitator 
or, perhaps that which is more offensive, of copying 
the personal traits or peculiarities of another. Before 
this poisonous drop touched him he had not thought 
of or considered the person whom he is supposed 
to make his model. For the first time he perceives 
there is some faint resemblance, or that in the style 
of dress or the peculiarity of wearing his hair or 
beard a similarity may be traced. It is as new to him 
as it is annoying. He has not the slightest desire to 
bear any resemblance in manner, style, or in personal 
adornment to the person whom he is said to be imi¬ 
tating. Perhaps he has but little respect for him, and 
no admiration. He wishes to resemble no one, but 
to stand separate and apart, a distinct individuality. 
No lofty nature will imitate the greatest of earth, and 
certainly not one without distinction. He would be 


77 



78 


THE IDEALIST. 


himself. He will not shave his head to put on a wig 
made of any man’s hair, living or dead. Or perhaps 
there is a resemblance between him and the portrait, 
as it has been handed down, of some distinguished 
man, or a resemblance is fancied; straightway it is 
circulated that he thinks he is like unto him, and that 
he tries to increase the likeness by imitation. It is 
as astonishing to him as the supposed likeness. He 
has too much self-love to copy any man, no matter 
how famed he may be. He cannot help others seeing 
or fancying they see a likeness, but he has no wish 
to assist it. I have noticed in the humblest, in men 
and women of the most limited culture, a desire for 
individuality. None bear with patience the charge 
of imitation. Similarity may arise from accident 
when the intention to copy never existed. And the 
knowledge that it was a copy would cause it to be 
rejected with scorn. Before you charge imitation, be 
sure that your own brain has not invented the accusa¬ 
tion, and that envy has not suggested it. It is so hard 
to admit of another’s superiority. A friend of mine, 
now in his grave, used to tell me of a salesman in a 
dry-goods establishment who was supposed to re¬ 
semble Shakespeare as he is generally represented. 
Said my friend to him, “ Though you look like Shake¬ 
speare, I do not think you could write such a play as 
Hamlet?” “ You do not know what I could do if I 
would try,” was the answer. He could not admit 
even the superiority of Shakespeare. I have often 
quoted the Shakespearian clerk as the model of hu- 


THE ACCUSATION OF IMITATION. J 9 

man vanity. The world is full of people who could, 
if they tried. It is well for their vanity they do not 
try. Every man does all that he can. He does 
nothing more, because it is not in him to do it. It 
is the solace of the lazy and the incompetent. They 
would not be lazy if they had force. If the boiler is 
filled with steam, and generating caloric, the steam 
must have vent or it will tear the boiler asunder. If 
the man has the power within him, it will force him 
to action. There are no “ mute Miltons.” Genius 
conquers circumstances. Biography shows that no 
poverty can shut out its light: it will shine through 
the darkest night of birth or fortune. It is not true 
that if every man will hold a mirror before him he 
will see behind him a master directing him, as is the 
favorite assertion of some despicable souls. Who 
is their master? There are freemen in this world,— 
men who listen to all, but alone form their purpose. 
The man who most delights in this assertion is one 
who has failed in his influence for evil and takes his 
revenge by asserting that the resistance comes from 
without the man who repulses him. I have met 
these serpents in my life and have heard their hiss¬ 
ing and have seen them thrust out their fangs,—but 
saw their venom and its cause. Sometimes it is 
done to shake confidence in a good man, and weak¬ 
ness may yield to its influence. Never allow your 
good opinion of man or your confidence in him to be 
overthrown by the malicious taunt that he controls 
you. None so wise but they may hear good coun- 


So 


THE IDEALIST. 


sel. And he is a weak man who shuts his ears for 
fear it will be said that he is governed. A subordi¬ 
nate was supposed to be coming to rule his official 
superior. It was trumpeted and asserted throughout 
the land in every form that malice could invent. A 
weak man would have rejected the subordinate or 
treated him with offensive haughtiness. The supe¬ 
rior did neither. He awarded him the full powers 
of his place and his just control, and there was no 
sign of anything but friendship between them. The 
master behind the chair disappeared from the public 
imagination, for a stronger man sat in it. 


LIFE’S POVERTY. 


T HE poverty of life,—nothing can make it rich. 

Men have said this since they began to record 
their thoughts. He died worth millions, and where 
is the proof that he had these millions ? Papers in a 
tin box kept in a vault. The piece of land of which 
he deemed himself the owner is but the ashes of 
millions of men. From a few inches of soil on the 
top of the earth have come its nations. The same 
dark earth has made all men, and from our ashes 
countless millions more will yet spring. When I 
see the pompous, strutting man I think of the ashes. 
Should this thought humble us ? It would, if all of 
us came out of this soil, from which not only one, 
but all of earth’s living creatures came. There is 
something of us which the sun and earth’s mould 
could not produce. The doctrine of “ evolution” is 
hateful to me. I cannot thus consent to my own 
degradation: there is something in me which was 
not evolved. There is nothing in soil and sun to 
evolve it from. 


/ 


81 



THE SELF-DECEPTION OF AGE. 


HE silly old woman who thinks she can still 



JL attract by personal beauty, and the equally 
silly old man who thinks he yet has the vigor and 
activity of his youth, are alike the cause of sadness 
when kindly feelings shut out contempt. If you 
think how short has been the stay of beauty, how 
brief the day of strength, and how poor they leave 
the shorn one when they depart, pity takes the place 
of censure. You can forgive the false face of the 
woman and the boasting assertion of the man. They 
live over their youth: she in her fancied deception, 
he in his self-deception. They wrong themselves 
and reproach age. The young are astonished and 
moved to mirth. It is age which discerns itself that 
feels the reproach, as it is the family who feel the 
shame of one of its unworthy members. When age 
is accepted the sting is blunted. Ugliness and wrin¬ 
kles, gray hairs and dimness of vision, shortened 
breath and spectacles are real evils. I have seen a 
man pull the white hair from his beard as though an 
enemy had come. No wonder: it is a shadow of 
dissolution, just as the first brown leaf foretells the 
coming fall. No more false line was ever written than 




THE SELF-DECEPTION OF AGE. 


83 


“All men think all men mortal but themselves.” 
The thinking man sees the measure of his life: he 
has counted the days which are gone, and he can 
count those which are to come, should his life be 
stretched to the utmost span. He knows the boun¬ 
dary beyond which he cannot go. He feels his mor¬ 
tality in every loss of power; he sees the approach 
of the end in every failure of strength. He may 
close his eyes, but, then, he knows he does not see 
because he has closed them. That line was written 
for fools and cowards. 


INTOLERANCE. 


I NTOLERANCE as to difference of opinion has 
not only arrayed armies against each other, but it 
is one of the most mischievous disturbers of social life. 
Intolerance will not permit a man to live his life in 
his own way, but insists on guiding or disturbing it. 
The capacity of intolerance is unbounded: it can 
think for all men, and it is offended when other men 
insist on the right of thinking. It knows what is 
best for you, and will persecute if you choose for 
yourself. It will not let you eat, drink, or clothe 
yourself in accordance with your own taste. It will 
cut your garments, fashion your hair, and model your 
shoes. It will decide on the proper color for you to 
wear, tell you what is fitting your age and station, 
and do everything for you except pay your debts or 
fill your pockets. These latter two things it permits 
you do for yourself. It can tell every man how he 
should spend his money and what he should bestow 
in charity. In plain words, it will not let you be at 
peace. The petty intolerance of life is one of its 
greatest burdens, for it is always sticking pins into 
you. If it was the wise who wished to control in all 

the minutiae of life, it might be borne with more pa- 
84 



INTOLERANCE. 


85 


tience; but the more a man knows, the less he inter¬ 
feres with others. It is the narrow mind, the petty 
intelligence, which is the most annoying. “ That is 
the way father did it.” Well, was father a very model 
of a wise man ? I never knew him, but I will ven¬ 
ture the assertion that he was a small specimen of 
humanity. Ignorance and intolerance are joined by 
bands of self-sufficiency and self-conceit, ignorance 
leading. Let other people alone. Suffer them to 
choose their own friends and to seek their own 
amusement. Let them find their own good, and be 
sure you cannot find it for them. Before you set up 
as a general monitor examine yourself. See if you 
have filed specifications for your patent of wisdom. 
Be not angry with people because they use more or 
less salt than you do, or because they use salt where 
you use sugar. Said an intolerant to me, “ I was in 
a street-car this morning; it was raining hard, and a 
young man was putting on a pair of light-colored 
kid gloves,”—and he repeated to me what he would 
like to have said to him, and stated that he could 
with difficulty refrain from making the remark. I 
do not remember what the proposed speech was, save 
that it was intolerant. He was offended that a young 
man should wear light-colored kid gloves in a street¬ 
car upon a rainy morning. How did it concern him ? 
He was not obliged to wear gloves of any kind, and 
probably did not. 

This illustrates that which I am seeking to impress. 

It is the intolerance as to the little things of life. 

8 


86 


THE IDEALIST. 


Nothing so mars the harmony of a family as when a 
member of it is possessed by this spirit. It creates 
constant irritation, for the other members of the 
family resent it,' and bitter quarrels and permanent 
estrangements arise, springing from matters in which 
the aggressor had no concern. The history of the 
world shows the result of the intolerance of opinion, 
for most wars have arisen from difference of opinion. 
One nation, one party hates the other nation or the 
other party because they have different opinions, and 
they pour out blood not to set each other right, but 
to gratify the hate of intolerance. I do not care to 
speak of this: the subject is worn and old. It is of 
the intolerance of daily life of which I write,—of in¬ 
timates, of friends, and the chance companion. In¬ 
tolerance puts a drop of poison in every social cup; 
not enough to kill, but to sicken. Intolerance is in 
our natures. We feel that a man reflects upon our 
judgment when he acts differently from us, no matter 
how trifling may be the subject. The basis of all in¬ 
tolerance is wounded self-love and mortified self-ad¬ 
miration. When a man does as we do he flatters us; 
when he thinks as we do he compliments our wisdom. 
The first impulse of difference is an argument, a 
contention, not for truth, but for an acknowledgment 
that we are right,—an admission we never get. None 
of us but have need to fight constantly against this 
intolerant spirit. We don’t like the way people dress, 
the way they walk, the way they eat, the way they 
pronounce their words, the tone of their voice,—it is 


INTOLERANCE. 


87 


not our way. I can remember when a moustache 
was a thing of iniquity, a badge of shame, a horror 
to respectability. Yet it is nature’s work; man did 
not grow it. I have always admired Chesterfield 
for his large toleration of opinion. It is supposed 
that intolerant men have made the most impression 
upon the world ; if they have, it has been the impress 
of destruction and not of good. Like war, intoler¬ 
ance burns and destroys ; it never builds. Its monu¬ 
ments are of molten cannon, not ploughshares; its 
fruits are ashes, not grains of wheat; its heroes held 
the sword, not the sickle. 


THE POISON OF GIFTS. 


B E neither pauper, beggar, nor gift-taker,—their 
kinship is too close; if the latter, you may be 
taken to be the kinsman of the former. Let it be 
remembered that gifts are more to the advantage of 
the giver than the taker,—I mean gifts of value, not 
gifts of compliment or tokens of kindness and affec¬ 
tion. Nor yet do I speak of gifts to the needy. I 
refer especially to gifts to persons holding public 
position. He is an enemy who offers a gift to a man 
in office. Though in form a gift, it is not a gift; it 
is a sale at a ruinous price, destructive to him who 
takes. The gift was not offered when the man was 
a private citizen. Why should it be offered when he 
is in office, if the gift is to the man ? The giver is the 
superior, the taker the inferior. It is the taker who 
returns thanks. Be assured, the gift will scorch the 
hand which takes it. The scorn should rest upon 
the head of the tempter. Perhaps he does not tempt; 
he only embarrasses, and for fear of giving offence 
the gift is taken. Every gift injures; every gift low¬ 
ers. No man in office should hesitate to refuse, for 
he should remember that he is not wounding a friend, 

but baffling an enemy. The caution “ to beware of 

88 





THE POISON OF GIFTS. 


89 


the gift-bearing” is as old as deceit. Still it is a 
lesson weakness will not learn, and cunning will ever 
give occasion to repeat. Earn the money and pay 
for what you get: this is the whole teaching of true 
manhood. The American people abhor a gift-taking 
official, and I am amazed that every official does not 
know it. Gift-taking is a blemish upon the fame of 
any man. The road out of poverty is not by gifts; 
rigid or painful economy is a better way. I have 
been told that to refuse a pass is to alarm a railroad 
corporation, for he who will not have a bit put in his 
mouth and the reins given to the corporation is to 
be feared. Gifts are expected to bring humility; and 
they do humble. Let every official shudder at these 
slimy serpents who crawl around him with gifts in 
their mouths: the sting of the adder is not more 
deadly. He should not be afraid of hurting them, 
but should trample upon them. They are sleek 
men, soft-voiced men, insinuating men, tempting men, 
these gift-bearers. They know the weakness of men, 
and by pandering to it obtain dominion over them. 
The humiliation of one man is the humiliation of all 
men, just as one true man raises all men. And this 
is the story which runs through more than one 
religious faith, the elevation of all men by one man. 


8 * 


YOU CANNOT REMOULD THEM. 


D O not quarrel with people for being what they 
are; be content that you are undeceived. 
You trusted them and you have found them un¬ 
worthy. You thought they had honor; you find 
they have none. You have been wholly mistaken 
in them. They are what they are; you cannot 
change them. They are fashioned and you cannot 
remould them. It is painful to be deceived, and 
you feel as though you would reproach the deceiver. 
To what end? You cannot change him. You were 
mistaken in him. He did not deceive you : it was 
you who deceived yourself. Drop him, that is all. 
Do not say, “ This is the last person I will trust.” 
That will be folly. Think over your acquaintance and 
you will find you were warned. He betrayed himself: 
you saw he was false to others, yet you would not 
heed. No man is ever deceived, or woman either, who 
is not warned,—warned by the betrayer. No man 
has ever yet woven a cloak of deceit so perfect that 
true man was wholly covered. I was never deceived 
in a man that I could not see where he had shown 
himself to me if I had regarded it. I could have 
learned his true character before some sudden reve- 



YOU CANNOT REMOULD THEM. 91 

lation portrayed it to all men if I had taken pains 
to read the lettering which was revealed. The real 
man was not always hid. I speak now of those with 
whom I came in more or less close contact; not of 
those whom I simply knew in their official stations, 
who startle the world as embezzlers and defaulters. 
I have no doubt they gave warning. They gave 
warning in their expenditures, in their gifts, in their 
manner of living; yet these plain warnings were 
unheeded. Those who trusted them were willing to 
believe they had some hidden source of wealth,—a 
gold mine in their cellars; that they were playing a 
game of chance with some invisible hand and always 
winning. The hand was invisible, but it was the de¬ 
faulter’s hand, and he was playing with the dupes 
who confided in him. One of the peculiarities of 
human frailty is the difficulty an honest man finds in 
convincing the community that he is honest and the 
ease with which a rogue gets their confidence. The 
truth of it is that there is a latent belief that the 
honest man is dull of wit and that the thief is his supe¬ 
rior. Men of integrity—or at least those who think 
they are—will employ a man whom they know is false 
to profit by his falsehood. Then they deceive them¬ 
selves by thinking their hand was not seen, though 
their pocket received the profit. The final audit will 
not admit this distinction. He who acts by the hand 
of another is himself the actor. 


BUT ONE WAY TO PAY DEBTS. 


HERE is no satisfaction of a debt but pay- 



JL ment. The bar of the statute of limitations 
does not satisfy it, nor yet does a discharge in 
bankruptcy. The debt remains, and honor and hon¬ 
esty demand its payment, notwithstanding paper dis¬ 
charges or statutes of repose. Debts cannot be paid 
by the machinery of the law; it cannot work out a 
satisfaction ; it is the property which is reached by its 
process that pays, not the law. A system working 
upon nothing or upon insufficient property will not 
pay debts. This is the vice of all bankrupt systems : 
they discharge men from the obligations of their 
debts without payment. For this reason dishonesty 
seeks their aid. They are sought either for oppres¬ 
sion or fraud. I have seen the operation of one 
bankrupt law, and know of the greedy officials who 
fattened upon it. I know of the impertinence of 
registers in bankruptcy. I heard one announce that 
he was not governed by the statutes or decisions of 
the courts. I told him that if such was his practice, 
we were without guide when we appeared before 
him. Every judge must perform his duties in public. 
If he does not he soon becomes a petty tyrant. A 


92 



BUT ONE WAY TO PAY DEBTS. 


93 


chief justice is a model of forbearance; an unlearned 
magistrate of insolence. Registers held their ses¬ 
sions in their own offices. Few worthy men were 
discharged by voluntary proceedings, while cheats 
wriggled out of the obligations of their just debts. 
No bankrupt law has ever been satisfactory to an 
English-speaking people, and none ever will be. In¬ 
curable defects are inherent in every system, and in¬ 
genuity cannot cure them, for they lie at the root. 
Many have been tried only to be blotted from the 
statute-book with universal execration, save from 
those who fed upon them. No matter how iniquitous 
and unpopular a bankrupt law may be, it is hard to 
wipe it out. Its roots become wide-spread, sucking 
the life out of the soil of the tiller, for the whole brood 
of its agents produce nothing. They reduce the divi¬ 
dend by their fees until the plundered creditor must 
put on his glasses to see it. I have no intention of 
writing a criticism of the proportions of the latest 
monster, which has just passed the House of Repre¬ 
sentatives. I know its principal feature will be its 
mouth. The House think they have reduced it, but 
experience will show that it is big enough to swallow 
and its maw capacious enough to digest for its own 
nourishment the greater part of the estates it draws 
in. There is no “ new way to pay old debts” except 
on the stage. 


WAITING FOR OUR DEATH. 



O know that persons are waiting for our death, 


-L expecting to gain by it, is a thorn in life. It 
is the burden of wealth and of office,—the posses¬ 
sions of the one and the place of the other are desired. 
Watching for the death of others, and yet ashamed 
to own it even to inward consciousness, lurks in the 
heart from interest alone. Except in deadly hate, 
malignity will not plant it there. The most disa¬ 
greeable, the sour-tempered, may live without a 
hidden wish for their death. If sickness touch the 
office-holder, speculation names his successor. We 
constantly see instances of this. Sometimes he does 
not die; then, is there not secret disappointment ? 
This is but an argument for the private station. I 
wrote something like this in the “ Egotist.” A com¬ 
mentator wrote on the margin, “ I am sure Mr. King 
would accept a judgeship to-morrow, if the President 
or the people should offer him one.” Whether the 
comment was true or false, it proves nothing. If 
true, it would only show that to gather the fruits of 
office I would stand on a ladder which envy and in¬ 
terest would rejoice to see break beneath me. I am 
sure it would give me pain to think that any human 


94 



WAITING FOR OUR DEATH. 95 

being was waiting for my death. I wish men to de¬ 
sire that I should live. I wish so to live that there 
is more gain in my life than in my death. But should 
men care that their death is waited for because their 
places are wanted ? They should not, yet how can 
they avoid it ? 

I am astonished at the inhumanity to the old; 
they are buried alive. “He has lived too long!” 
This is a cruel speech. I have heard it spoken of 
earth’s brightest. His services, his devotion, his 
feelings are disregarded. Bury him: wait not for 
his death, and erect no monument. There is a shout 
of triumph when the old leader is overthrown. Why 
not let him live to the end ? I am always rejoiced 
when I see an old justice of the Supreme Court of 
the United States refuse to resign ; he will die on the 
bench,—die with his pen in his hand and the lawyers* 
briefs before him. In our hurry to thrust judges 
from the bench, because they are “ too old,” wise 
counsels are lost and great opinions are unwritten. 
The very acme of the judge’s life is lost to the 
public. If a man studies and thinks, he must grow 
wiser as he grows older. Wisdom is not born with 
us: so much as we have of it we acquire. Each 
have their true place, the young and the old. The 
old, if they have been diligent, have a garner it is 
not wisdom to lose. Men are watching to see evi¬ 
dences of mental failure. Bacon thought the mind 
of age was as deformed as its body, and Dr. Johnson 
said that a man learned nothing after he was twenty. 


THE IDEALIST. 


96 

I accept neither of these propositions. As to that of 
Dr. Johnson: when the learned lawyer commenced 
the study of his profession he was twenty years of 
age; are the vast stores of legal learning he has 
acquired nothing ? Before he was twenty he knew 
nothing of them. Do the productions of years show 
the deformities of age? Dr. Johnson’s last work— 
the “ Lives of the Poets”—was in many respects his 
best. I wish to lengthen life, not to shorten it; to 
give more time for work, not to close the work of 
the day before the sun goes down. The whole day— 
morning, noon, and evening—is none too long. Years 
bring strength as well as feebleness. The casket may 
rust, but the jewel it encloses keeps its lustre. The 
mind may be strong when the step fails. The soul de¬ 
pends not on the body. Till the reed breaks, it may 
emit sweet sounds. Time may make the spirit gentle; 
it does not of necessity coarsen by contact with the 
world. Age has its gentle spirits as well as youth ; 
its loving hearts which the winter of life cannot 
chill. It may hope for its fellow-man, though its 
expectation of future days be brief. All age is not 
harsh and cold. Tenderness may look out of eyes 
dimmed by years, and trembling hands write words 
of wisdom. Youth writes passion; age points out 
its wrecks. Judgments soften with years. Said a 
lawyer friend to me, who wished to convict a young 
man, “I will have no old men on the jury. They 
will say, ‘Give the young man a chance.’ ” He him¬ 
self was young. Age sympathizes with the strug- 


WAITING FOR OUR DEATH. 


97 


gles of youth as youth does not. Youth is in the 
fight. Age knows its wounds and scars. It pities 
him who has just begun the conflict. Whether the 
battle has been won or lost, no man would fight it 
over again. It cannot be wholly gained : some part 
of the field will be lost, though the world may cry 
victory. And mourning for the loss drowns the joy 
of victory. 


e S 


9 


\ 


WE CANNOT PLAN HAPPINESS. 


E cannot plan happiness. We cannot arrange 



V V for her and invite her as our guest. When 
invited, she will not come. She comes when she is 
not expected, and refuses to come when we have 
made every preparation for her. She is obstinate 
and self-willed, and will not be coaxed. The unex¬ 
pected journey, the unlooked-for visit is the happy 
one. No machinery, however skilfully made, can 
fashion her. Happiness will not make a part in any 
cup if we try to pour joy into it. Happiness is free. 
She comes without price. She will not be bought. 
She will burst any chain by which it is attempted to 
fetter her, any cord by which she is bound. We can¬ 
not bring happiness by toil ; we may dig for her and 
obtain but weariness. When every want is provided 
for, when all the world can give is at the feet of her 
votary, then is she farthest away. She is as likely 
to come to the aged as the young, to the sick as to 
the well; more likely to come to the plain than the 
beautiful, to the poor toiler than the rich idler, to the 
self-denying than the luxurious. Nowhere will she 
dwell long. Her visits are short; she comes at long 
intervals. I know not where she dwells; but she 



WE CANNOT PLAN HAPPINESS. 


99 


dwells not on earth,—that I know. What is the con¬ 
clusion ? Must we not seek her? Any answer to 
this question would be a vain and an idle one. We 
will seek her. Reason may tell us that to seek her 
is to lose her. Yet our love for her is so great that 
we will pursue her. When we are weary, and rest, 
then she comes to us. She respects the Hindoo’s 
faith,—repose. No restless man is happy, and his 
restlessness shows he is not. The writer seeks hap¬ 
piness in writing, yet it brings him none. A gleam 
when he finds he has touched some soul, a thorn 
when he awakens anger. Why, then, does he write ? 
Because while reason dictates, as I have above writ¬ 
ten, hope, which scorns reason and experience, bids 
him work on. If dignity is to be guarded, happiness 
slips away, as she does from the child who must not 
soil its dress by play. She is at war with the careful, 
and suffers herself to be embraced by the vagrant. 
She loves Bohemia better than Westminster. She 
has no knowledge of men’s distinctions of high-born 
and low-born, and often forsakes the humble when 
they become exalted. She never pins the sun¬ 
flower upon her breast, and seldom does the dia¬ 
mond flash in her hair. She will not be locked in 
safes and vaults. She is the true fairy, invisible, 
haunting unfrequented spots, and shunning the 
noisy highways of men. 


SILENCE. 



HE flow of the deep river represents the general 


-L silence of nature. The stars move in silence. 
The great in nature is voiceless. Man babbles, but 
silence soon overtakes him, and he is quiet forever. 
Growth is silent: the leaves bud in silence. The 
deepest lesson of nature is silence. I am aware that 
this silence of nature has impressed men in every age 
and clime, and that I write nothing new; yet, when¬ 
ever I watch the silent flow of the river, this thought 
weighs upon me and has led to this expression. And 
its inhabitants are voiceless. Death from violence is 
constantly occurring beneath its surface. Yet we 
hear no sound. The dwellers under its wave die 
in silence. There is something awful in absolute 
silence. Man must hear voices: he pines and loses 
his reason in silence. The good in nature is silent; 
evil is noisy. Nature renews herself in silence, while 
the destroying tempest is turbulent. Ruin follows 
noise; the uprooting wind, the thunder after the 
lightning’s stroke, all tell that nature is disturbed. 
Man annoys nature, and she often visits him with 
swift revenge. He assumes that nature is his ser¬ 
vant, but one convulsive movement and he and his 


IOO 



SILENCE. 


IOI 


works disappear, and the placid wave hides their 
grave. He is not earth’s master, and never can be. 
I have no doubt this earth will continue silently to 
move in her orb after his prattle has ceased and he 
has disappeared forever. 


9 * 


MAN’S APPROVAL. 


M AN scorns his fellow-man, and yet seeks his 
approval. He shuts the sun from him, 
brings the night of death upon him, makes the 
track of his march a waste, and calls the impulse 
which drives him on ambition. Sometimes he gives 
it a loftier title, and names it patriotism. The mo¬ 
tive remains the same,—the love of admiration. The 
love of power is but the love of praise. The betrayer 
boasts of his conquest, though at the peril of his life. 
We build houses, make speeches, write books, to be 
admired. Even while pronouncing the sentence of 
prison or of death the judge is looking around for 
applause. It is not only the actor on the mimic 
stage, it is not only the “ pasteboard king” who 
looks for the clapping of hands: the incense of ap¬ 
proval is as eagerly sought for by the actor on life’s 
stage and by the king who asserts that his crown 
is the direct gift of Heaven. It is strange that the 
king whom God has put upon the throne should 
be governed by ambition, which is but the sound of 
men’s voices. He should listen only to the architect 
of his royalty. Men have not asked him to rule; 

then why should he seek for their approval ? 
102 




MAN'S APPROVAL. 


103 


Though God put him on the throne, he will not 
trust God to keep him there; for that he looks to 
the cannon of men. And if men withheld their sup¬ 
porting arms, no other arm would bear him up. It 
is to be hoped that men will yet rub the mud from 
their eyes, and get them opened wide enough to see 
the blasphemy of the pretence that such rulers are 
God-sent. God is not the author of evil. Wealth is 
but for show. Strip the soldier of his finery, and he 
would not care to march the streets. In the pho¬ 
tographer’s group each individual hopes to be seen. 
Man’s admiration is all we have. “ Heaven’s ap¬ 
proval” we cannot see, we cannot hear; though some 
assert they are conscious of it. We often think duty 
guides us when we are looking for praise. The world 
knows how praise is valued, and gives it grudgingly. 
It must be wrung from the giver; and, if he can, he 
will accompany the gift with a criticism which de¬ 
stroys its value, or he snatches it back before we 
seize it. So we are fain to praise ourselves, and the 
world laughs. The sarcasm which bites is to pro¬ 
voke the laughter of others. Laughter is a sort of 
orchestral accompaniment to praise; a trumpet of 
joy at the discomfiture of another. I never feel so 
ashamed of humanity as when I see people laugh at 
a man who' has slipped and fallen. “ He looked so 
funny, I could not help laughing,” is the contempt¬ 
ible excuse. Most laughter is at the misfortunes 
of others as seen or imagined. If we can, we will 
force praise; censure comes without our effort. 


104 


THE IDEALIST. 


Praise is scarce and high; censure cheap and com¬ 
mon. It pains us to praise, and gives us joy to cen¬ 
sure. Censure shows its kinship to truth—if truth is 
not slandered—in that it is our natural speech. Cen¬ 
sure is not always just; and no man need think that 
his life—no matter how pure it may be—will free him 
from it. Its greatest evil is that it teaches us to 
despise the opinion of others. I cannot win men’s 
good speeches; then why should I regard what 
they say of me ? They will not praise me, except 
with stint; then why should I regard their dis¬ 
praise ? It is a part of the struggle of life. It is 
the imaginary good which all are struggling for. 
The less of regard for the speeches of others, the 
more of happiness. I have used the word speeches 
instead of opinions, for speeches do not always fol¬ 
low opinions. The falsehood is racy, the truth dull. 
Truth creeps ; falsehood dances. 


THE TEST OF RESPECTABILITY. 


U SEFULNESS should be the test of respectabil¬ 
ity, and idleness the mark of dishonor. The 
man who produces is more worthy than he who 
handles,—the depositor than the receiver; he who 
builds railroads, and he who “ runs” them, are more 
worthy than he who deals in their stock,—the builder 
than the broker; the man who makes the money 
than he who takes care of it,—the manufacturer than 
the usurer. Society reverses all this and gives her 
hand to the idler, and values him as he is useless. 
This scorn of toil is the remains of barbarism. The 
Indian and the Highland chief equally despise work. 
When we become thoroughly enlightened, it will be 
more disgraceful to be idle than it is now to work. 
Within my recollection a great change has passed 
over society. The circle, whose pride is that they 
toil not, is being narrowed and less respected. Young 
men are less ashamed to have the dust of toil upon 
their hands. I have known social circles, by no 
means wealthy, in which no toiler who wielded any 
instrument heavier than a pen could enter. There 
are many instruments of labor which will bring more 
money than the pen, especially if it is confined to 

io 5 



io 6 


THE IDEALIST. 


“ original entries.” How the man who can escape 
all labor should be the favorite of society it is difficult 
to understand. No doubt in ancient and modern 
times slavery did much to degrade labor. And its 
poison is still felt where slavery has been, though it 
ceases to exist. A soft hand is more agreeable to 
touch, but it takes a hard hand to build and plant. 
Still a soft hand may perform its share of the toil 
which supplies the world’s needs ; produce some¬ 
thing of use. Do something which is a benefit, and 
you leave the ranks of the worthless and join the 
army of the useful. A different class of men are 
coming to the front in public life,—successful toil¬ 
ers,—and I bid them welcome. What use has he 
been ? This is the potent inquiry. This republic 
has no room for apes in foreign garments,—she wants 
men; men who get their principles as their fathers 
did their money, from our institutions. And we 
want no foreigners who do not respect our laws, or 
who wish to bring the debris of monarchy here. 
Reverence our laws or go back to your own country. 
I have known men who came to this country in 
poverty acquire wealth, and yet not have a word of 
respect for the land in which they had prospered. 
We do not need their commendations, they would 
not benefit us; but it would make us feel more 
kindly to the untutored hordes who are invading us. 


THE OLD BUTTERFLY. 


B ETTER is the companionship of the old but¬ 
terfly, or the remains of one, than that of the 
worn-out old grub. To some old men nothing re¬ 
mains but weariness. I have a regard for them, but 
at a distance. They are old all over. All is mourn¬ 
ful. They have yielded to age. All to them is 
buried, and they refuse to see that life is still around 
them. We dread being put in our coffins while yet 
alive, then why should we put ourselves there? 
Youth has no horror of age, if age does not make 
itself horrible. Youth loves life, and if it sees age 
but waiting for death, it shrinks from it. The heart 
may have joy in it, if the bones are old. We need 
no waiting time between activity and death. As 
long as the ear can hear music we should listen to it. 
I saw one of Pennsylvania’s greatest judges in the 
theatre a short time before his death. I frequently 
saw him there, though many years were upon him. 
Of course, he died upon the bench. Such men die 
in the midst of their work. I have no doubt he was 
as well prepared for death as he would have been 
had he sat his last years in sackcloth, with his head 

covered with ashes. From the cup which pleased 

107 



io8 


THE IDEALIST. 


him he drank to the last. The world is ever ready 
with its sackcloth for us, and insists in putting it on 
us at the first tinge of age. The wise man declines 
the proffered garment. He will wear the fashion of 
the world and of life to the end. When he is dead 
they may put a shroud upon him,—he cannot resist. 
The word butterfly is perhaps ill-chosen, for it is a 
synonyme of a useless rover; gay I would have 
him be, yet not useless. I might have dragged out 
the much-used and ill-used bee for my comparison, 
but he has a sting. So I will let the butterfly float 
at the head of this tribute to companionship. He 
has in him much I admire and would fain imitate. 
I do not like serious men,—to them life is a solemn 
thing. I think it has in it much of beauty and of 
mirth. We need not be told of our mortality, it will 
speak for itself. Men preach mortification to others 
to obtain luxury for themselves. 


HUMILITY TO MAN NOT A VIRTUE. 


1VT O man can put a stamp upon another. No 
^ man’s notice, or refusal to notice, can establish 
another’s character. He cannot confer honor, nor 
yet can he imprint dishonor. Let every man remem¬ 
ber he is no man’s merchandise, to bear his mark. 
His esteem, his contempt does not fix any man’s 
place in the world. He may refuse to recognize; 
that only shows his opinion, whim, or prejudice. It 
is mortifying not to receive notice where it is ex¬ 
pected and desired, but let no one see the chagrin. 
He cannot elevate, he cannot depress. It lies with 
each man alone to do either. I have known sensible 
people to fret because they failed to obtain some de¬ 
sired social recognition, when in truth they were 
superior to those whose recognition they sought. 
That man has a little soul who is elevated by any 
man’s notice. He cannot make the other greater or 
less. After his nod the noticed is the same man, 
unless he is flattered by it, and then he is smaller. 
He who swells because of notice or collapses be¬ 
cause it is denied is a fungus on the social tree. We 
can prosper without any man’s smile, and we can 

survive any man’s frown. All that is needed is man- 

io 109 



110 


THE IDEALIST. 


hood. No society is worth stooping to enter. No 
man’s good-will is worth cringing to obtain. No 
true man will permit another to cringe to him. 
Kneeling is for the stage. The man who is pleased 
with crawling has as small a soul and as little man¬ 
hood as the man who crawls. No true man finds 
pleasure in the degradation of his kind. Humility 
to man is not a virtue. Respect is all any man is 
entitled to, and that all men should get, unless they 
forfeit it. I loathe the humble man, the deferential 
man. Humble as he is he will sting if he can do 
it in secrecy. We are all so weak that deference 
pleases us when first offered. Yet the humble man 
has cords concealed behind his humility with which 
to bind us. He means to be paid for his humiliation. 
I have seen the crawling sycophant turn to the arro¬ 
gant master when fortune changed. And he will be 
as arrogant as he was cringing. No man cringes 
without a motive. Interest, not love, moves him. The 
man in power will not seek friends, and the worthy 
must be sought. So he has flatterers and not friends. 
The proud, but true man, stands aloof while the 
sycophant picks up the crumbs. When does the 
man in power with gifts in his hands send ? never: 
they come with open beaks, flapping wings, and 
vulture’s claws. The experience of ages teaches this, 
yet no public man has ever learned the lesson. Then 
comes the complaint of ingratitude. Favors melt, as 
surely as snow, if grasped in the hand. The giver 
of them must be a perpetual spring, each year fresh 


HUMILITY TO MAN NOT A VIRTUE . Ill 

leaves. Love seeks not gifts. Givers are followers, 
not lovers. Cards of invitation confer no honor. 
Honor is an acquirement, not a gift. The choice of 
the multitude voices honor; the choice of one savors 
of favoritism. The lofty soul will be borne upon the 
shoulders of the many; the little soul is content to 
sit upon the palm of one hand. He who ties to one 
man rides in a small boat; the ocean ship anchors 
in the stream. That which I would teach is that no 
man’s approval, no man’s rejection or contempt, can 
change any man; it may change his fortune, but that 
no man should think less of himself because haughti¬ 
ness, or insolence, or arrogance passes him by. 
Character is a better security than a bail-bond. 
Character is less likely to fail than the surety. Form 
may demand the bond of a security company, but the 
real surety is the man. 


THE CLEAN PAGE. 



T HE man who carries poison, be it book or pic¬ 
ture, needs to be watched. I would not trust 
him. He lacks self-respect, the surest bond of trust. 
An added horror to death by accident would be to 
have found about the dead man that which would 
bring the blush of shame to the living. So I would 
not have in my library a book which I would be un¬ 
willing the world should see. I might hide it in a 
corner, but sudden death would reveal it. This is 
not a pleasant subject, I will not pursue it. An in¬ 
cident of the day suggested it. This taste can plead 
no excuse. Let the library be decent if the life is 
not. I have heretofore spoken of the writers of these 
books. They sin with deliberation, and with no 
temptation but avarice. And I think I have noted— 
and if I have not I will do it now—that some of the 
writers whose pages are the most loathsome are 
women. No unclean writer lacks readers; it is the 
clean page which is covered with dust. We have 
read of coin spotted with blood; it must be the pur¬ 
chase-money of these books. I have more than 
once said that the enemy of mankind of the greatest 

power may be the writer. 

112 



ARGUMENT DOES NOT REVEAL THE 

TRUTH. 



RGUMENT is not conviction ; it does not create 


Ti the truth. The world has been filled with its 
strife, and frightened truth has fled from its noise. 
Tomes of argument have made no converts. Like 
unto the star above us, to see truth, it needs only 
that the clouds shall float away, and that we look 
upward. Contention has shut out her light. Truth 
has been buried beneath the upturned dictionary; 
lost in the words of the speech-maker. In the 
volumes of the printed “works” of the “statesman” 
a little hard wood may be picked out; but the 
most of the material is wind-shaken. We look 
for the golden thought, and find ashes and cinders. 
“ Speeches” should be allowed to die, and to stay in 
their graves; their ghosts should not haunt man¬ 
kind. A few speeches of value may exist, though I 
do not know where they are hid. If such there be, 
they are the production of the pen. I have been a 
speech-maker from my youth. I feel it necessary, 
after writing the above, to make this confession. I 
believe, however, that my speeches are mostly dead, 
though I have heard of some of their apparitions 
wandering about. I have some of them in a scrap¬ 
book which no one sees. Shall I put in marching 
h io* 113 



THE IDEALIST. 


114 

order the speech-makers who have wearied me ? Let 
them file past. I remember the political orator who 
always had another engagement, and therefore must 
speak first; and the speaker who recited the same 
little speech on every occasion, and the “ magnetic” 
speaker who “ lifted” the audience out of their seats, 
to leave the hall. I have been looking all my life 
for the “ magnetic” man. I must have missed him, 
for the “ magnetic” men I have heard made me long 
for fresh air. Then I have known the speaker, not 
on the programme, who sat on the front of the plat¬ 
form to be called out by his admirers. Generally 
they forgot to call him. And the tragic speaker 
with his hands above his head, who in quivering 
but impassioned tones called on the “ Bastile” to fall 
again. Who has not seen the statuesque speaker 
with bowed limbs and scrawny form attitudinize 
Adonis ? All these types we have seen and heard. 
We have heard Bottom roar with bellows lungs, mis¬ 
taking noise for sense. We have seen the pile-driving 
orator with clinched hand make the table rattle. 
We lawyers have all with confidence appealed to the 
“ intelligent” jury. “ Intelligent” until their verdict 
was against us, then stupid. Everything of value re¬ 
quires deliberation, which impromptu speaking does 
not permit. Passion, which is the soul of the orator, 
leads astray. Patient thought alone is valuable. 
Argument does not reveal the truth. She appears 
and speaks as the well-trained actor does, when the 
cue is given. 


THE VICE OF “ PUBLIC CHARITIES.” 


I F great wealth thinks to appease the unrest of 
the toiler, to make atonement for the wrongs 
done in its accumulation, to balance accounts with 
poverty by erecting vast edifices and leaving great 
estates to “ charity,” it misunderstands the harshness 
of the means by which it was gathered, and the 
needs and purpose of the toiler. The true worth of 
a “ charity” can only be tested by bringing its work¬ 
ings home to the individual life. Let my reader 
suppose himself an “ orphan” within the meaning 
of that word as decided by the Supreme Court of 
Pennsylvania in “ Soohan vs. the City of Philadel¬ 
phia,” a case which I argued for the city, reported in 
33 Penna. State Reports, page 9; that is, a fatherless 
child. Then imagine that he or she has now arrived 
at manhood or womanhood, and is looking back 
upon childhood; that they are feeling the influence 
of their rearing in their position in life: which child¬ 
hood would best satisfy them ? If the son, that his 
mother had put him in a school for orphans; if the 
daughter, that she had placed her in an “ orphanage” 
home ? And suppose they had been well fed, well 
clothed, well housed, and well educated; or would 

115 



n6 


THE IDEALIST. 


they love better that mother who had struggled with 
poverty, though toil came early and privation had to 
be endured, and education was but limited, but it was 
under the mother’s roof and by the mother’s side; 
it was independent; it was not contaminated with 
“ charity”—every proud-spirited man and woman, 
every true-hearted one would say, I reverence my 
mother for not branding me, for not putting upon 
me a stain which no life success could wash off; one 
for which I would not be responsible, and therefore 
the more cruel. It is selfishness and laziness in the 
parents which consign the child to the “home.” 
Our land is filled with stately structures reared by 
vanity, or to placate a guilty conscience, or from mis¬ 
taken humanity, which destroy self-respect and bum 
the hearts out of thousands with concealed mortifi¬ 
cation. The little girls look very happy in their 
clean dresses. Their little beds are neat, and the 
grounds are magnificent. And the little ones are 
happy; content in the ignorance of childhood. The 
good women who act as patrons think they are doing 
a noble work. Yet meet that girl when she is a 
woman and mingles with the parent-reared, and see 
how carefully she hides all evidence that connects 
her with her childhood’s “ home” ; see the blush of 
shame which comes to her cheek when the “ home” 
is mentioned ; hear her whisper to her companion not 
to tell that she ever was there, and then some doubts 
may arise as to the charity. Then listen to her 
words of bitter reproach as she says to her mother, 


THE VICE OF “PUBLIC CHARITIES .” 117 

“ Why did you send me there ?” and the “ charity” 
fades away and pity for its victim fills your bosom. 
“ But that is false pride,” says the matron whom these 
words offend. Yet you have it, madam. It is your 
pride, that your father paid for everything furnished 
to your childhood. And misfortune may hide, but 
it cannot drive out this pride which you call false, 
but is nature’s womanhood. It is the true, just feel¬ 
ing of the American “ society” girl. I respect the 
working-girl who refuses to go to your boarding¬ 
house, who will have her own hours, and not the 
hours of the establishment, who will not take with 
humility the lectures upon morality which she un¬ 
derstands and perhaps follows better than her cen¬ 
sors. She is not content to accept your rules and 
live in a state of constant thankfulness and humility. 
She will not make the “ charity bob” or the humble 
courtesy. Pride loves to teach humility. Humility 
is the food of the pride which would dominate. Pride 
fattens on humility, but starves to save self-protect¬ 
ing pride. And I know of no food so nourishing 
to that article called “ spiritual pride” as orphans’ 
“homes,” schools, and colleges. There is no other 
place where the unctuous “philanthropist” can find 
such luxuriant pasturage. I confess I have but little 
consideration for the professional lover of man, for 
the man who is always active in “ good works,” as 
he cites his intrusion. He is geneally vain, pom¬ 
pous, and assuming. He claims a great deal of def¬ 
erence, and swells with indignation if he does not 


ii 8 


THE IDEALIST. 


receive it. He loves newspaper notoriety. I once 
tried to interest myself in a ward “ charity.” I soon 
found that my services were not wanted except as a 
collector. Perhaps the managers thought I would 
not be content on the back benches. My contribu¬ 
tion was Welcome; I was not. The offices were all 
filled. Satisfied subordinates were wanted, prospec¬ 
tive candidates were not. Every community is weary 
of seeing the same names thrust forward in every 
public movement. They are not the wisest of the 
community. Yet they are without doubt the most 
presumptuous. It never occurs to them to invite to 
their counsels other men, save to put a book in their 
hands to solicit money for these self-appointed al¬ 
moners to distribute. The community is sick unto 
death of the whole lot. Their names are an offence. 
If a man of ability appears among them they run to¬ 
gether and flutter as a brood of frightened chickens 
when a hawk soars over them. They are afraid their 
poverty of intellect will be discovered by the contrast; 
let them understand that society wants no patrons. 
My contest is for the individual, that he may be 
reared by parent, no matter how hard the struggle, 
or how scant the store, or how imperfect the educa¬ 
tion may be; all these may be mended, but the taint 
of a “ charity” childhood can never be effaced. May 
mothers think of this when they are anxious to con¬ 
sign the child to the deathly atmosphere of a public 
institution. It will be the grave of their peace of 
mind, deathly to their future happiness and well being. 


THE VICE OF “PUBLIC CHARITIES .” 119 

I am not writing to wound. Many hearts know the 
truth of that which I write. The man with his mil¬ 
lions who is trying to pauperize the poor, for to be 
poor is not to be a pauper, man is more cruel in be¬ 
stowing than in gathering. The poor do not want his 
free libraries, his free lectures, or anything that is 
free. They wish wages for their toil, wages enough 
to educate their own children, to buy their own 
books, to pay, if they wish, to listen to lectures. 
The “ charity” of the rich is the vice of the age. It 
is but another form of oppression, and it is the most 
odious. I look to the man, not the institution. I 
wish to see the man elevated, not the “ noble charity” 
erected. I wish to see self-respect inculcated, not 
bloated vanity fed. I wish to see millions divided, 
not in “ charity” but in wages. These costly rear- 
ings will no more satisfy the longings, no more soothe 
the surging waves of inequality than will a spoonful 
of oil calm the wild wave. Money to do good must 
be paid, not given. The giver humbles, he who 
pays elevates. Compensation, not charity : this the 
intelligence of the hour demands. It will be content 
with no less. The employer must be content with 
less profit, he must not seek to be placed so far above 
the employe. They must approach nearer. Men 
are feeling their manhood rights, and they will have 
them. This is the struggle of the day. No man can 
place himself serenely aloft and calmly witness the 
conflict. Money will not bear him above it. The 
greater blessing is to the helper, not the giver, to 


120 


THE IDEALIST. 


the friendly hand, not the hand which brings gifts. 
Gifts are easy where abundance exists. The gift of 
self is hard to bestow. It may be said that which I 
have written is too positive; that it is ex cathedra; 
that I have assumed too much ; that there is another 
side which I have not shown. My object has been 
with all the vividness in my power to point out 
where a good impulse has set a snare. I wish to 
show that giving is not the noblest work, and that 
it may and does work injury; that giving is not 
always elevating, and that elevation is better than 
giving. Some are so helpless that they must be sup¬ 
ported. It is better to give to the aged than the 
young. The boy who is taught a trade by “ charity” 
will never equal the boy who has toiled for it. That 
which we earn we cherish; that which is given to us 
we despise. No man cares how humble his begin¬ 
ning if he has lifted himself out of it. He only con¬ 
ceals his poverty when a strange hand has cared for 
him. Poverty leaves no stain, “ charity” does. 


WHY MEN PASS OUT OF SIGHT. 


M EN pass out of sight as soon as they cease to 
work. When a man ceases to toil he is for¬ 
gotten. His past work will be treated as the work 
of a man who is dead. His work will be deemed as 
the work of another. “ You cannot do it” and “ You 
cannot do it now” have the same signification. Thus 
the old boast of the past. The sadness of age touches 
me deeply. I know of nothing more melancholy 
than giving an old man money to pay his fare to the 
poor-house. He has fought against it, but it has 
come at last. He has no bread. He has no shelter. 
The landlord of his miserable room has kept his 
tools and the few remnants of other days. His pride 
is broken; yet, when he asks you for a pittance, he 
will not say, “ Poor-house.” It is “ over the river,” 
and you see him no more. You know enough of 
him to know that his poverty was much his own 
doing. He was false to his wife, he neglected his 
children, he was the victim of his appetites. Yet the 
broken old man is a sad sight. He has borrowed 
until he can borrow no longer. Such an end never 
came over his saddest dreams. He thought he would 
die rich. Most likely he was insolent. He defied 

II 121 


F 



122 


THE IDEALIST. 


society. He would live as he pleased. Too late he 
learned how weak he was, how quickly prosperity 
deserts, and how rapidly necessity comes. How 
quick poverty travels when she turns her face to¬ 
wards the man she has selected for her acquaintance ! 
To the last he had schemes which would bring thou¬ 
sands ; but he needed daily bread. A few soiled and 
worn papers he carried about him,—sole evidences 
of fortune to come. Was there no friend to help 
him ? None. And his children,—they are men and 
women,—will not they help him ? He will not talk 
of them. Perhaps he has so wronged them that he 
knows their hearts are turned far from him. Perhaps 
to speak of them is to touch the knife which is already 
deep in his heart. One son would help him, but he 
is poor, and cannot assist him permanently. There 
is always one child whose heart is not hardened. 
Perchance he does not wish his children to see his 
humiliation. He will go away silently and secretly, 
and they shall never know his despair. Yet when 
they were babes his toil fed them. Have they no 
shame ? He is their father, though they owe him 
no love; he has forfeited that. Dismal ending. 
Why does not death come when it would be so wel¬ 
come ? Why will it always appear when not wanted ? 
He lives on; lives to suffer. This may be the last 
garnering of the evil of his life. Yet it may not be. 
He may have tried in the right, to be overcome at 
last,—tried so hard. Life to most men is a constant 
struggle. Never plenty; always a little scant. Purse 


WHY MEN PASS OUT OF SIGHT. 1 23 

not quite empty, yet never filled. Often prodigal,— 
for the prodigal has no to-morrow. The selfishness 
I have seen in the young prodigal; his purse open 
to every evil, closed to every good. He sees no 
future. The jail, the poor-house, or dependence are 
written for him in fate’s book. And the book is 
open ; the most careless observer may read. It takes 
no soothsayer to cast his fortune. You need not 
look to the stars to read his destiny. It is written 
on his shameless forehead. He tells it in his heart¬ 
less speech, which scorns every tie of nature. Few 
are his years, yet his heart is as hard as though the 
waters of evil had rolled over it for ages. No point 
where he can be touched can be found. Every 
avenue of his being is closed to counsel, save the 
counsel of men such as himself. To them he will 
listen. I have seen the loving parent bear and for¬ 
give, when the impulse of the looker-on was to take 
him by the throat and choke out his worthless life. 
Perhaps in so doing he would only anticipate the 
work of the hangman’s rope. Search him on every 
side, and no good could be found. Self alone, and 
self at the bottom of the pit. Some readers will say 
I am harsh. Perhaps I am; but I would never take 
the coat off the toiling son to put it upon the back 
of the brother who had pawned his own. I might 
not let him freeze, but I would let him shiver. My 
observation is that dissipated men are selfish men. 
They weep when sober, but it is for self they weep. 
Self-control is the foundation of all good. The gen- 


124 


THE IDEALIST. 


erosity of the prodigal is but selfishness. Let that 
prodigal reform, and he is the miser. Neither as 
prodigal or as miser has he generosity, save as it 
ministers to himself. 


THE GENTLEMAN. 


O UR self-love objects to being made the object 
of comparison and illustration. “About as 


old as you are” is not an agreeable way of stating 
another person’s age: it at once leads to an inquiry 
as to your age; mental perhaps, but an inquiry. “As 
gray as you are” may inform others of the color of 
the hair or of the advances of age; but they must 
first turn and look at yours. “ I should think the 
. room a little larger than yours” produces at once an 
eye-measurement of your room and a mental obser¬ 
vation that it is rather small. “I should judge his 
library about the size of yours” leads to a counting 
of your books,—not audible; the company is too 
polite for that; still, they are surprised to see how 
few books you have. “ I should think about your 
height; a little broader in the shoulders perhaps.” 
Now, you don’t know the width of your shoulders,— 
you have never seen them,—and you have a most 
imperfect notion of your appearance. You have only 
seen your counterfeit self in glass, and it takes more 
than one glass to give you an idea of your round 
shoulders. In the remark that “ The few things you 

have you would find troublesome to move,” the pau- 

ii* 125 



126 


THE IDEALIST. 


city of your furniture is suggested, though the trouble 
of moving is the object of the speaker’s illustration. 
These personal illustrators never illustrate from 
themselves or from their own property, unless to 
magnify. No one ever heard a woman say, “She 
is younger than I am, or about my age.” And a man 
does not often say, “ He has as little hair as I have,” 
so as to attract attention to his scant locks, or want of 
locks. We do not by comparison call attention to 
our own imperfections. All this is but another vio¬ 
lation of the golden rule. We do not mean to hurt, 
yet we do hurt. The victim feels the shaft, though 
he who draws the bow does not intend to wound. 
It takes innate delicacy to make the true gentleman. 
No teaching, no example will make one. Occasions 
will arise when teaching and example will fail, and . 
then nature must come forward, or the man fails to 
be a gentleman. The gentleman does not address 
another according to his moods. He is not social 
to-day, grum to-morrow. He does not carry the 
success or the failure of the day’s business on his 
face or in his manners. One day, walking upon a 
crowded, fashionable street, I saw a young woman 
inadvertently tread upon the heel of the man in front 
of her. I could see by his appearance that he as¬ 
sumed to be an elegant gentleman. He immediately 
stopped, turned round, and, with an insolent bow, 
allowed the young woman to pass him. It could be 
seen how deeply mortified she was. He meant to 
mortify her, to show her how awkward she had been. 


THE GENTLEMAN. 


12 7 


And so he made her feel. That man was not a 
gentleman. The touch of that girl’s foot might have 
caused him involuntarily to turn, but if he had pos¬ 
sessed the gentle instinct, he would have immediately 
recovered himself and passed on. I think it likely 
she apologized; but if she did, it was unheeded. An 
insolent, impertinent bearing is not the bearing of a 
gentleman. It is money, not a courteous father, who 
makes such a gentleman. This changed bearing, as 
affairs do well or grow ill, is weakness. The strong 
man maintains an unruffled appearance. No one 
knows from his carriage whether his purse is full 
or empty; whether his sales are great or small; 
whether his patients or clients are few or many; 
whether his rent is paid or the landlord threatens a 
distress. With unmoved front he passes among his 
fellow-men. If disaster has overtaken him, he works 
the more persistently; but no one sees that he frets. 
He does not retail his sorrows to every ear which is 
open. If he must seek for aid, there, and there alone, 
he unburdens himself. This is not mere stoicism,— 
it is wisdom. Cover up your wounds : the air will 
only inflame them. Look not for sympathy. You 
will get a ton of scorn to an ounce of commiseration. 
This world is for the strong. The spirit of good has 
not yet obtained rule over it. The evil one is still 
powerful, and he can only be opposed by fortitude. 
This is not my teaching: it is as old as disappoint¬ 
ment and disaster. 


WHAT IS STRENGTH? 


S TRENGTH is not immobility, nor yet is it indif¬ 
ference. A man is not strong simply because 
he takes no interest in humanity. Selfishness is not 
power. Serenity is strength : not the serenity of the 
stagnant pool, but of the deep river; a serenity that 
has estimated life and is not disturbed at the paucity 
of its possessions or the fewness of its chattels; that 
can calmly see the world worship bales of goods 
with a little man behind them without desiring the 
goods or envying the man. The modern god is 
spun. He is made by looms and shuttles. Cocoons 
and cotton-pods are his substance. The world sees 
a pile of fabrics, and imagines it sees a man. The 
skilled artisan whose genius and industry fashioned 
these goods, whose hand and brain produced them, 
it is he whom they represent. The world sees him 
not. When I look at the beautiful articles in the 
shop-windows, I think of the pale artisan who made 
them. His genius is absorbed by the dealer. His 
name is lost in the seller. He is the creator,— 
not the man whose name is painted on the sign. 
The wearer sees his work, but considers not the 

workman. Goods are not a man; filled shelves are 

128 



WHAT IS STRENGTH? 


129 


not a statesman. All the silks ever spun or woven do 
not make a man. A bale of merchandise is not a 
man. The warehouse may be large and the man 
small. A man may have strong cords and tightly- 
twisted ropes in abundance and his own muscles be 
flabby. The paper may be beautiful and the writing 
a scrawl. The multitude confounds the man and his 
wares. He may have long arms to gather, the sel¬ 
fishness to hold, and yet be himself shrunken and 
withered. The loom cannot weave a brain or produce 
a soul. 

He is a weak man who is fretted by another’s 
estimate of him. We have no fountains of honor. 
No man’s notice or neglect can move the steadfast 
soul. Usurpers sit on buckram thrones and affect to 
give men their place; but he is a weak man who 
accepts his distinctions. The foundation of his 
throne is lump sugar or rock salt, and melts as they 
do. Women aspire to “ lead the fashion,” yet every 
one in the train is at heart a rebel. The strong man 
looks in every eye, in a straight line. If he looks 
upward, it is to his God; if downward, to a worm. 
He neither fears nor disdains his fellow-man. The 
more I see of the weakness of man, the more des¬ 
picable to me seem his petty distinctions; and I can¬ 
not respect the man who is pleased with a garter or 
a ribbon. A man in his coffin is sadly insignificant. 
Calumny is conquered by strong serenity. Slander 
must have a response: it dies from silence. The 
victim must give new food, or the slander perishes. 


130 


THE IDEALIST. 


That slander which masks behind the “ public good” 
is the most malignant. That which slanders for the 
“ love of the party” is the most insincere. Envy is 
the prompter of that species of slander. They attract 
attention, as the serpent does, by a hiss. He who 
cannot live without applause is weak. The strong 
man does not desire to attract attention. It wearies 
him. The shout of the mob he turns away from. 


COMMUNITY’S ESTIMATION. 



OTHING so surprises us as community’s esti- 


T ^ mation of us, when that estimation is distinctly 
revealed to us. Many go through life without learn¬ 
ing it, and they are therefore never cured of their 
exaggerated opinion of self. I do not mean to say 
this estimate is just, for it is not. All of us are su¬ 
perior to the opinion which is formed of us. One 
man cannot do justice to another,—his self-love pre¬ 
vents it. Still the estimate is always disappointing; 
with all our reasoning we never can anticipate it. 
It humiliates when first learned; but if we are self- 
contained, we refuse to accept or abide by it. Self- 
knowledge is not taught by others, for the lesson is 
so mixed with envy, jealousy, and malice that it is 
as misleading as the vainest formulary of our own 
brain. To drink of the distillation of our own con¬ 
ceit is as healthy as to drink of envy’s wine,—the cup 
which community oftenest presses to our lips. A 
friend once said to me, “ How is it that you always 
appear so healthy ?” “ By not indulging in tobacco, 

rum, or envy” was the reply. The answer was no 
doubt self-glorious as to the last item in the cata¬ 
logue of negations, and the word “ rum,” with the 



I 3 2 


THE IDEALIST. 


meaning intended, savors of coarseness; yet if there 
is a spirit I contend against, which I abhor and de¬ 
spise, which I would tear from my soul, it is the 
spirit of envy. Suppose another lawyer is sought on 
every hand and the golden shower never ceases, am 
I to nurse a serpent in my heart and hate him for it ? 
Am I to say that he does not deserve it; that his 
success is the result of accident? Am I to lose my 
health, to carve wrinkles in my face by gazing upon 
him ? No. His prosperity harms me not. I will 
not so intently look upon him as to lose sight of my 
own affairs. Suppose a man whom I knew when 
poor is now possessed of millions; he took nothing 
from me to get them. I will not look at him with 
an “evil eye.” His palace throws no shade upon 
my life. Suppose I know the means by which he 
attained his high office, and they are such as I would 
not use for any place, shall my blood turn to water ? 
Shall I loathe my food and break my sleep by reason 
of it ? He has his reward; I have mine. He paid 
the price; I did not. I have my manhood; he the 
office. And so we are even. Envy is as blind as 
love. But I have strayed from my first thought. 

No man is so disappointed as the writer of a book. 
He thought the world would rush to read it. Have 
they not read A’s book ? and how much greater am 
I ? But the book never has a life; it is dead from 
its birth. He finds that his name has not strength 
enough to float the tenth part of the edition, which 
he unwillingly reduced at the suggestion of the un- 


COMMUNITY'S ESTIMATION 


133 


imaginative publisher. Experience had taught him 
of the wide gulf between the author’s vanity and the 
interest of the reader. Then come the criticisms,— 
sharp enough to reach his heart, though his book 
shielded it. He has learned the worth of his name 
in the sale of his book, and the estimate of the book 
in the criticisms upon it. Sometimes it does not 
rise high enough to reach the critic’s pen. It creeps 
out of the world as silently as it entered it. Its 
binding was its shroud, the publisher’s shelves its 
grave, and its only mourner the disappointed author. 
Community’s silence has taught him its estimation. 
What shall we say to him ? Can we comfort him ? 
Can we advise him to try again ? We have heard of 
those who at first failed, and yet compelled the world 
to listen; but we have not heard of that vast multi¬ 
tude whose first failure was their final defeat. There 
is in the sound of the word author a higher ring than 
in the name of emperor,—for emperors have sought 
the author-title. The author speaks when the name 
of the emperor is buried in his dust. Our highest 
joys are the mind’s joys; and when the author be¬ 
lieves his thought will join the thought of the un¬ 
numbered, it fills his soul with ecstasy. He sees the 
glimmer of immortality. He feels the life of that 
thought which is never to die, and he calmly looks 
upon palaces which will crumble, upon monuments 
of stone which will fall, upon the laudation of the 
lapidary which trade will dig up to plant its marts. 
If he rebels at community’s estimate, when he hoped 


134 


THE IDEALIST. 


approving hearts, we cannot condemn. He has 
thrown out the net he so wearily weaved, and is 
astonished that the net is all he draws back. The 
public’s approval is as uncertain as the waters that 
have passed through it and glided on. I imagine 
the failure of the first book is generally the final fail¬ 
ure. The heart breaks or hardens, and tries no 
more; or vanity consoles itself that the book will 
have a resurrection ; that succeeding generations will 
take it from the shelf. This is the last solace, weak 
and delusive. A man’s mind should be well braced 
with resolution before he puts his name to a test 
which will show him how the public value it, or even 
how a limited community estimate it. It will not 
add to his happiness to have his self-deception re¬ 
moved. He had better sleep in self-valuation than 
be awakened by it tumbling upon his head, as it 
surely will if he permit the community to lay its 
hands upon it. 

“ He is over-valued,” says envy. Not very likely. 
And are you the only man in the community who 
can put a just valuation upon him? For it is that 
your question implies. You only have truly esti¬ 
mated him. Envy has put its opaque glasses upon 
you, and you cannot see. Yet I cannot understand 
the popularity of some men. I cannot see why the 
mob shout. Has envy obscured my vision ? Tried 
by my own standard, I might be compelled to admit 
that that bird of the night had built her nest upon my 
breast. If I stood alone, I would listen to catch the 


COMMUNITY ’ ES TIMA TION. 


135 


sound of the beating of her wings; but I am reassured 
by the opinions of others. This, however, is cer¬ 
tain,—that if envy does close our eyes to the good 
in a man, the jaundice of dislike clouds to us all his 
actions. If we have resolved to see no good in a 
man, it will never be visible to us. I have heard 
men say, “ What a bad face he has ?” yet I never 
could see the evil in it. I liked the man. This have 
I learned by experience,—never to take the world’s 
opinion of a man, be it good or be it bad; and this 
statement I have often repeated. I have found men 
far better than the world’s fame, and I have found 
them deeply below its reputation. If for you he is 
kind and just, that is enough for you. The contest 
with the world has not taught me admiration of its 
“ perfect” men. I have found its “ sinners” better 
than its “ saints.” Mark what I say, the “ world’s” 
distinctions, not God’s. His saints the world does 
not stamp, and sinners before him the world may 
not know. Though every day’s exposures reveal 
to us the deception, yet I know men who stand high 
before their fellows whose names I believe are writ- 
tin in the everlasting books of light. “ Judge not, 
that ye be not judged.” We must trust each other: 
we have no barometer to tell us whether a man is 
cloudy or fair. It may take a long life to unmask 
him. For I hold that, though it may take a life, yet 
if another face is shown at last it is the mask which 
has fallen. Temptation is simply opportunity. It is 
the coward’s plea. Sometimes we can almost hear 


136 


THE IDEALIST. 


the evil one whispering in our ear, feel his hot breath, 
yet he sprang from our own hearts. He has no life 
but that which we give him. He only whispers 
when we listen. No seed will grow if there be no 
soil. No plant of evil will flourish if we do not 
water it. 


THE STRAIT-JACKET. 


I S the writer, whose people worship “ false gods,” 
to be accused of impiety because he refused to 
join in that worship ? If he was impious it is for the 
reason that worship is an establishment and the 
object of law. There are two kinds of law,—the law 
of the land and the law of public opinion. Of the 
two, the latter is the most unbending, the most 
searching. It cannot be repealed; it has no equity 
to modify it, no board of pardons to forgive and blot 
out. That the writer of pagan times was faithful to 
the truth when he rejected its deities we admit, yet 
he is charged with impiety for his unbelief. The 
excuse for a false worship is that the people must 
have their eyes put out before they can be led; that 
it is better they should be blind and led by craft 
than see and choose their road; that it is better 
they should in darkness follow error than in light be 
free to choose, for fear they would choose error. If 
they saw they might choose the right road, but if 
they are blind and guided by cunning they must for¬ 
ever go wrong. This principle that man must be 
bound that he may do himself no harm makes the 
world an insane hospital, and hands the keys of its 

dark cells to a few self-appointed keepers. Each 

12* 137 



138 


THE IDEALIST. 


patient is in a strait-jacket which artifice has tied. 
This truth, the story of man’s progress teaches, that 
his limbs had first to be unfettered before he moved 
forward. In all ages, and under all the forms of 
superstition which cunning has devised, ghostly 
tyranny has sat like an incubus upon the heart of 
man. It has pulled the strings which danced the 
spectres before the eyes of the affrighted multitude. 
And it has denounced with fearful vengeance that 
impious wretch who exposed the machinery. To 
progress, man must be free. If another man holds 
the ends of the cords which are wrapped around 
him, he must lie upon the ground a bound slave. 
Cunning often matches cunning and plays the hyp¬ 
ocrite. Freedom is obtained, because deception takes 
the place of superstition. Freedom makes no hyp¬ 
ocrites. No man is a hypocrite without a motive. 
No man will profess to believe that which he thinks 
is false except he gains by it. His conformity is to 
the law, promulgated by the law-making power, or 
by that inexorable tyrant the “ public.” The law of 
public opinion, unwritten, but of irresistible force, 
makes more hypocrites than ever did the canons of 
the most powerful spiritual ruler who in the past 
times dominated over the souls of men. Hypocrisy 
is not a homage to virtue. It undermines it. It is 
the foe who is working in the mine, and not the foe 
in sight. It is the kneeling subject, paying homage, 
who is sneering behind a mask. None but the 
believer can pay true homage. 


CHANGED BIRTHS. 


N ATURE designed her for the child of refine¬ 
ment ; fate made her the child of poverty. She 
has the shapely hand, the gentle manner, the voice 
of one whose birthright has been stolen. And how 
they suffer, these children of the light, in the dark¬ 
ness of poverty and privation ! How the coarseness 
which is around them wears upon them ! They may 
never have known any other condition; therefore 
they see but dimly the cause of their misery. They 
shrink from their surroundings, yet scarce know why. 
It is the feeble cry of nature which the iron hand of 
fate is stifling. Then fate gives wealth and oppor¬ 
tunity to those upon whom nature has stamped every 
incident of poverty,—the coarse hand, which the 
costly rings, by a striking contrast, make coarser; 
the ungentle voice which defies the musician’s skill 
and the elocutionist’s art; the laugh which no words 
can describe, but which always betrays; the rude 
manner, and the love for like companions; all these 
tell of the changed births. Before her birth poverty 
had written her name in the list of kitchen-maids; 
but fate, for some unfathomable reason, snatched the 
babe from poverty’s clutches and put her amid 

i39 



140 


THE IDEALIST. 


gold, and then left her; forgot to fit her for the good 
influence of wealth, so she has caught all its ill. 
Thus through life she shows the contrast of original 
design and misplaced birth. If a man conquers fate, 
he but shows nature’s original design. If fate over¬ 
comes him and he sinks from the place of his birth, 
nature has but asserted herself. Each has found 
the place nature prepared for him. Fate intervened 
at first, but nature conquered in the end. 


IN THE STRIFE. 


F ROM action to contemplation. He who has not 
been in the strife, cannot describe the battle. 
The recluse in his cell may study his own heart, but 
he knows not how he would act in temptation or 
peril. To reflect there must be something which the 
mind can look back upon. If it looks upon vacancy, 
upon inaction, it but dreams. The greatest writers, 
the most useful writers, have been men of action. 
Bacon was a lawyer, statesman, and chancellor; 
Shakespeare, the successful manager of a theatre. A 
life of contemplation is a life of idle musing. He 
who never takes his pen from his hand may write as 
many books as Southey and be as little read. The 
pen must rest, and the man must act in life if he 
would learn what men are. I have noted this, that 
the writers who have acted a part in life, when they 
write of men, do not write the copy-book maxims of 
the triumph of virtue and the success of honesty. 
These are written by men of the closet, by men who 
write of a world they have seen in their dreams. 
Their maxims are ridiculed and despised by men of 
affairs because they have found them false. They 

make the mistake of promising prosperity as the re- 

141 



142 


THE IDEALIST. 


ward of virtue and honesty. They build palaces for 
virtue, but she seldom lives in them. They construct 
jails for vice, while she prefers the palace, and finds 
it a more congenial abode. 

Let no man say I am writing against virtue, 
honesty, and truth. I am not. That which I object 
to is the rewards which are promised to those who 
follow them. These promises are false, and the re¬ 
wards do not come. Earth promises earth, and the 
more of earth in a man the more of earth will stick 
to him. If he gathers possessions, he has oftener 
been false than true. He has gained more by hard¬ 
ness than by generosity, by keeping the penny than 
by sharing it with misfortune. No man can confute 
this. This world is earthy, not heavenly. It smells 
of muck. And they who have most of it wear earthy 
garments, not heavenly. Its fruits spring from cor¬ 
ruption and decay. One form of life dies that another 
may live. One man perishes that another may find 
a place. 


THE QUARREL WITH LIFE. 



MAN quarrels with life, when the true cause of 


■Lx discontent is in his own life. His world is 
self, but he finds that world so small that there is in 
it no room for content. The smallest men I have 
known are the idle men living on a narrow income. 
There may be some grandeur in worthlessness when 
supported by large expenditures; but the idler of 
petty fortune, who eats his bread in care as well as in 
sloth, becomes as petty as his fortune. He lives in 
the smallest of worlds. He has not money enough 
for vice, for vice is expensive, so he tries to become 
a vegetable. His reading is confined to one news¬ 
paper, and it takes him a day to get through it. I 
have seen him in the evening with the same news¬ 
paper in his hands which he was lolling over in the 
morning. Such men become the gossip of their 
circle, and when you hear them talk you are aston¬ 
ished at the insignificance of the objects which fill 
their minds. To what purpose, says my reader, do 
you write of such shallow characters ? what possible 
interest can we have in them ? None at all. They 
are the most wearisome and uninteresting of the in¬ 
habitants of this planet. When I have looked at 



144 


THE IDEALIST. 


them it was because they passed before me, not that 
I turned my eyes towards them. Sometimes they 
pretend to a dignity, but there is no dignity in idle¬ 
ness. Only for this do I write of them as warnings. 
Such a life ends in misery. Every year plants a 
thorn, until thorns pierce them from every side. 
They cannot rest. Sleep flies from them. Then they 
quarrel with life, and say “ there is nothing in it.” 
A man who is worthless cannot be content. No man 
can be happy who knows that he is of no consequence 
in the world. Our nature forbids it. He may as¬ 
sume that he is happy; he may affect to despise 
“trade”; but he must become as inanimate as a 
sponge ere he is content to be one. “ He was a 
well-known club man;” that is all which can be said 
of him. What an obituary! That he spent his life 
as a lounger, benefiting no human being. What did 
he give for the bread he ate ? Who gave him leave 
to live such a life ? God did not. “ In the sweat of 
thy face shalt thou eat bread.” He makes no ex¬ 
ceptions. Nature did not, for she refuses to yield 
her fruit without toil. Man’s laws do not, for every 
citizen must benefit the commonwealth. He was 
then an outlaw, living by sufferance. Why should 
one man carry another, if both are able to walk ? 
No nation is benefited by an idle, consuming class. 
It is a fiction that they preserve the graces of life. 
History shows that in such a class vice grows and 
honor fades; that good breeding is lost in inso¬ 
lence. This republic needs no privileged class, and 


THE QUARREL WITH LIFE. 


145 


it will tolerate none save in contempt. Such men 
may lean against each other, but the united column 
is no stronger. They are what builders call rotten 
stone, and the column is not more enduring by its 
breadth. It only makes more dust when it crumbles. 


g k 


13 


IS MAN MADE BETTER BY DECEPTION? 


M UST men ever be treated as children to be 
pleased with fairy tales and lulled to sleep 
with fiction? To keep them in order, is it necessary 
to delude them ? Will they be made better by de¬ 
ception ? Has God appointed jailers to shut the 
human mind in the dungeons of fear; has he given 
them the keys ? No man is the God-appointed 
jailer, and no man the heaven-destined prisoner. 
When the human mind, long confined by fear, bursts 
its bonds in the first ecstasy of freedom, it rejects the 
guide of reason and tears off every restraint. From 
slavish superstition to insulting belief is but a step. 
Force cannot forever bind the human heart, false¬ 
hood cannot forever deceive. The dam will be tom 
asunder and the imprisoned waters will spare neither 
the church nor the haunt of vice. The good and the 
evil will alike be swept away. Open the doors of 
the prison-house willingly; set reason free; do not 
wait until chains have made madmen. Armies may 
be doubled, spiritual denunciation may roll; still 
reason will be freed and conquer. Where the de¬ 
votee formerly bowed in reverence is now heard the 

shout of ribald unbelief. The light was seen, the 
146 



IS MAN MADE BETTER BY DECEPTION? 147 

torch seized, not to guide but to burn. I am amazed 
how one writer has followed another, neither seeing 
or daring to write the truth. Truth is hid by interest. 
The lie brings profit. It clothes in fine linen and 
provides sumptuous fare. Falsehood is environed 
on every side. She has in her pay hosts of mer¬ 
cenaries. Truth is too poor to pay her defenders. 
They are but undisciplined volunteers. There may 
be the content of numbness, as opium eases pain, 
not by curing but by deadening. Yet afterwards 
comes the cruel nausea. So man numbed to quiet 
by fear will awake not cured of his discontent but 
maddened. Repression cures no discontent. The 
cancer may be covered with silk, yet it eats. It is 
strange when a man has the elements to war with, 
when the tempest destroys his labor, he cannot find 
enough to contend with and be at peace with his fel¬ 
low-man. Is strife his normal condition? If so, 
then he mars the harmony of the universe and is a 
pestilence. 


THE LESSON OF LOVE. 


M AN’S trust and woman’s betrayal; woman’s 
confidence and man’s falsehood! These 
have been the burden of song and story, and will be 
till the end comes. From age to age the story never 
alters, never wearies. Each generation trusts; each 
generation believes. Yet deception, weariness, disap¬ 
pointment, sadness come to all. Can she be deceiv¬ 
ing me ? cries the burdened heart. Are you sure 
you will never grow weary ? is the question of ex¬ 
perience. It is well that warm youth refuses to lis¬ 
ten to cold age. It has a vision which age has lost. 
It is better that youth should suffer than fail in sad¬ 
ness to learn the lesson of love. What are those 
lessons ? Man and woman have been trying to read 
them since the earth was young, and the lesson is 
still unlearned. Each heart keeps its own school 
and is its own teacher. A man must have a love 
which he calls up from the past or sees in the pres¬ 
ent to write of love. He must remember his mad¬ 
house, or call from its cell to describe its fantasies. 
The imagination cannot conceive them. It is mad¬ 
ness to seek a felon’s doom for the lost love of a 

false woman. Why break the heart for the man 
148 



THE LESSON OF LOVE. 


149 


who no longer loves you ? Love never comes back. 
Be not so mad as to dream it will. If it is dead, 
bury it, do not put the corpse in your closet. Vanity 
will not consent that it is dead. And there is more 
of vanity in love than love will acknowledge. 
Wounded vanity is the sharpest thorn in rejected 
love. 

Not many men envy their successful rivals after a 
few years have passed. Let the unsuccessful suitor 
remember this. It will comfort him much. That 
which they so long for will be but a faded, withered 
leaf in a few years, and if in possession of another 
they will wonder at their delusion. All on earth 
dies, and love breaks not the universal law. Change 
is everywhere, save in the stars, and perchance there 
too, and love partakes of the general mood. Love 
strives to write its characters on the stars, and lovers 
have ever been gazing to find them there, but their 
calm light has given no response. No, the love of 
which I write is of earth. It demands possession ; it 
seeks its own happiness; it will destroy rather than 
yield. It devours; it is as greedy as the grave. 


13* 


THE NAME OF THE MOST CRUEL MAN 

ON EARTH. 


I F I should write the name of the most cruel man 
on earth, it would be the name of the man who 
had resolved to become a millionaire. He will take 
the home from the aged and the cradle from the 
babe. He will press the mortgage, force the property 
to a sheriff’s sale ; not to get his own with interest, 
for that was tendered him, but to obtain the property 
at a price far below its value, and then to turn the old 
people in the street. Their title was such that they 
could not make a mortgage to take the place of the 
one which was closing upon them. Yet, for their 
possession, it was good against the world. He would 
not assign the mortgage, though tendered every dol¬ 
lar which was due him. He would sell, and, without 
a probable competitor, buy. But the equity of the 
law thwarted his greed, and compelled him to accept 
what was due him and assign the mortgage. Ap¬ 
peals to his sense of justice only showed that he had 
none. Yet he was pursuing the course of the law. 
It took the strong arm of equity to compel him to 
let go. I have given but a shadowy skeleton of the 
proceeding. I have no wish to clothe its dry bones 
150 









NAME OF THE MOST CRUEL MAN ON EARTH 151 

with the form of a living man. He is not a dishonest 
man, tried by a legal standard ; grasping men seldom 
are. He looks to the law to aid him, and is careful 
not to violate it. I will do him further justice and 
say, he does not desire to be dishonest in the sense 
that he does not pay his debts, or that he seeks to 
avoid them. It is prodigality which fails to pay, not 
parsimony. Hardness and cruelty are the vices of 
the man of whom I am writing. Mine is his talis- 
manic word, and moves every action. He is a blun¬ 
derer who uses money not his own. This man does 
not so blunder. 

He is hard upon himself, why should he pity 
others ? He cares not for his own comfort, why 
should he heed the complaints of others ? He re¬ 
pents himself if he allows sympathy to touch him ; 
that to him is weakness, and interferes with his plans. 
He notes not that time is using his shears and pin¬ 
cers upon him; shearing him of his hair, plucking 
out his teeth ; that he is stiffening his limbs and 
bowing his back. His million is to compensate for 
all loss. “ Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be 
required of thee, then whose shall those things be 
which thou hast provided ?” 


THE “BLACK BEAST.” 


HE man who haunts you; the man whose 



JL shadow causes you to let down the portcullis 
of your speech; the man whom you abhor, he is 
destined to stand in your path. You may walk over 
him, you may think you have thrown him into the 
pit of oblivion, yet there he is again. If you strike 
at him, you hit the yielding air. You think you 
have forgotten him, when, lo, he stands before you. 
You despise him, yet he vexes. You do not fear 
him; you would joy to grapple with him, but he 
eludes you. You are not always sure that he hates 
you. I have known men who were my contem¬ 
poraries in early life watch me through life, why I 
cannot tell, surely not kindly. I had forgotten them, 
yet they know every step I have taken. Our paths 
have not crossed. We have never been rivals, yet 
that “ evil eye” has followed me. If you are a man 
of positive character, not sparing in your speech, 
these malignants are many. Some chance speech 
has made them, and the effect of that speech is never 
obliterated. In nature certain creatures have an an¬ 
tipathy for each other. So it is among men. In 
my younger days I saw and felt this truth more 



THE “BLACK BEAST.” 


153 


keenly than I do now. I was nearer my fellow-man. 
I now live more in myself and heed him less. I 
have learned how little he can do to give me joy or 
pain. Every year he gets further away, and dimin¬ 
ishes as he is removed. My “ black beasts” have 
become very small and tame; they have lost their 
horns and hoofs. I do not mean to say that I have 
not provoked them. I may have been fierce in 
speech, intolerant of opinion, hating with unrelenting 
fury. I may not have weighed the wrong in my 
revenge. But enough of this. The world cares not, 
heeds not our rage. It laughs at us as madmen. 
And such we are, with our impotent hates. It cares 
not that the scowl is on our brows; that we thrust 
out the tongue. One kind word is worth a vocabulary 
of scorn. One gentle act has in it more power than 
a thousand blows. Let the “ black beasts” perish. 


THE INVENTORY OF LOSSES BY TIME. 


I HAVE continually asserted that there is no gain 
in deception; that no man is better because he 
is deceived. Yet there is a self-deception which 
makes me hesitate. Would it be wise for every 
man, every woman, to make an inventory of each 
item they have lost by time, and compare it with an 
inventory of all they have gained ? Is it better we 
should refuse to see the loss and magnify the gain ? 
Certain it is that we all refuse to see our losses. 
The most self-searching, like the bankrupt, keep 
something back. Some refuse to write down any 
loss ; time has robbed them of nothing. Time’s lines 
have not marred the beauty; time’s loads have not 
borne down the strength. A little more of cosmetic, 
it is true, but no one sees it, and it really is not 
necessary. The breath comes shorter, yet that is 
temporary. Is it better to be thus self-deluded, or 
to pull from our faces the veil which hides the truth, 
and see ourselves as time has marked us? and to 
consider how we stand as to years which have passed, 
and as to those which may be ours ? Will the truth 
overwhelm us with despair, or will it brace us for 
another and firmer conflict with fortune ? Truth 
i54 



THE INVENTORY OF LOSSES BY TIME. 155 

brings no healing to vanity. The convent, not truth, 
has sheltered the faded beauty. When men no longer 
supplicated, then she offered prayers to heaven. She 
turned that face to heaven which the world no longer 
admired. And it was well when the beauty of the 
life supplied the beauty of the form. Yet is this a 
hard lesson. Hymns of heaven for songs of love. 
The heart was deeply wounded before it consented 
to the change. Often this was a remedy born of de¬ 
spair. Beauty has much sin for which to answer. 
Yet personal unloveliness has turned many a heart 
to piety. Despairing of admiration in this world, it 
has been sought from heaven. Whether the face be 
beautiful or plain, devotion sanctifies it; though no 
painter ever gave a saint aught but a beautiful face; 
beauty and piety have always been linked in the 
artist’s dream. He never conceived an ugly saint. 
I would not be willing to make an inventory of all 
time has taken from me; and if I did in the utmost 
sincerity and with the most absolute faithfulness, the 
first friend to whom I would submit it would see 
many omitted items. Grieving for their loss will not 
restore them. I have heard men say they did not 
desire to live beyond fifty years of age. Yet when 
that age arrives I have no doubt they will change 
their minds. That assertion, however, shows this, 
that they live for their senses. And when the senses 
fail them, they think life will no longer be worth 
living. It is a confession of degradation. The mind 
fails not at that age, however much the body may,— 


156 


THE IDEALIST. 


that is, where the mind has been cultivated. If a 
man lives for his body, whatever of mind he may 
have will fail with the body. There may be a seren¬ 
ity in age which youth knows nothing of, but that 
serenity does not come to those who refuse to be old, 
who think that art can make youth and blindness 
give strength. Recognize past years in the value 
you put upon those which may yet be given you. 
There is nothing new in this advice, it is not mine. 
Sages have repeated it since man grew old. 


THE ROGUE. 


T HAT individual, that political party which ac¬ 
cepts the services of a rogue will regret it. 
The same cunning and treachery which served them 
will betray them. It is himself he serves, not his 
employer, be that employer an individual or a party. 
When weary of his methods, or doubtful of their ex¬ 
pediency, he cannot be shaken off. It is then his 
grip grows stronger, and some of the flesh must be 
torn away to be rid of him. He will not let go his 
hold; and it will cost more to heal the wound than 
was gained by his services. Neither party nor indi¬ 
vidual will be the gainer by the services of a rogue. 
In the end they must lose. All this comes from the 
delusion of the smartness of roguery. Temporarily 
it is successful. At first it wins, and beats straight¬ 
forward methods. But there is an honesty in the 
human heart which in the end rejects it. Having 
accepted his services, pretentious honesty must ac¬ 
cept his company. This respectability is loath to do. 
He will soil its garments, and soil them on the out¬ 
side where it can be seen. If the tarnish was up the 
sleeve, or on the lining of the back of the coat where 
it could be hid, it might be endured ; but the soil is 

14 l 57 



158 


THE IDEALIST. 


in front. Roguery is not modest; it laid its head on 
respectability’s bosom when respectability made it a 
companion. There is but one rule,—refuse tarnished 
services. A political party had better suffer defeat 
than win by them. They demoralize and dishearten 
a party. A party must respect its leaders. We have 
in this country a class of men called “ politicians 
not such in the better meaning of the word, but in 
its worst sense. They will destroy any party. They 
rule by gifts, not by love of country. The mercenary 
prefers them to statesmen. The statesmen look to 
the country, the politician to his servitors. Rewards 
are the promise of the politician; faithful service of 
the statesman. The politician is obnoxious to the 
body of his party, but the noisy camp-followers sus¬ 
tain him. Experience has shown that an entire state 
may be debased by the methods of the “ politician.” 
Honor and manliness retire from the strife, and the 
men with baskets come to the front. They are a 
clamorous crowd; and if their master cannot feed 
them, they will eat him. It is selfishness which re¬ 
tires, as well as selfishness which stays. If a party 
had less fear of defeat and more sense of right, they 
would not accept the knave’s cunning tricks, though 
they brought power. Such power is not rooted. 
The men of whom I speak bring no strength to a 
party. Success is not strength ; it may be the last 
convulsive movement before death. For my own 
part I should prefer that the party to which I belong 
should not have an office in the country than that it 


THE ROGUE. 


159 


should hold them all by the aid of the men I have 
attempted to describe. If the party obtains power 
through their pernicious methods, they become the 
dispensers of patronage, and they pay their tools, not 
for justice, but for future service. It is not necessary 
that a party should have offices, it can exist without 
them; but it cannot exist without principle. For 
my personal comfort I would rather belong to a party 
that has not an office to give. If the tureens of the 
soup-house are empty, the mendicants will forsake it. 


VOWS WHICH DWARF. 


H E who has joined no political party, no church 
organization, no association where he has to 
make promises, vows, or give pledges, has an indi¬ 
vidual strength that the man of promises, vows, and 
pledges has not. His arms are free, his speech his 
own, and his actions controlled only by his own 
judgment and the law of the land. The fewer the 
vows the more lofty the consecration. The more 
multiplied the vows the more slavish the spirit. 
Vows, promises, pledges, consecrations are swathing- 
bands of weakness, the bandages of doubt and de¬ 
pendence. The stronger the man the stronger the 
faith ; the firmer the conviction the less need of these 
bands. In time they may pinch, they may wear, the 
child may become a man, he may change his opin¬ 
ion. Then these swaddling-clothes, these vows and 
pledges, prevent the free movement of his limbs. All 
associations with iron rules dwarf the man. I once 
tried a cause where nearly all of the witnesses came 
from the lumber regions, men of the woods, and I 
was struck with the appearance of physical power 
they all had. They came from the mountains where 

they had room, not from behind counters where the 
160 




VOWS WHICH DWARF. 


161 


muscles shrivel. I would that in the days of my 
youth some good fairy of thought had whispered 
into my ear, beware of promises and pledges, keep 
yourself free. The dread of the reproach of political 
apostasy will bind you. With others the fear of 
the condemnation of heresy binds them to creeds 
they no longer respect or believe. Youth is ready 
to fetter the future. It will not consent that its pres¬ 
ent enthusiasm may cool; that its present confident 
opinions will ever change: so it binds itself; binds 
with bands which may sink deep into the flesh, may 
cut and torture, and, though finally broken, leave 
lasting scars. Men fear the reproach of change. 
They think obstinate wrong more honorable than the 
right, if to get in the right they must acknowledge 
that they have changed. Steadfastness in the right 
is honor ; obstinacy in the wrong is dishonor. He 
is weak who cannot say, I was wrong. The most 
bitter taunt is, So you have changed. It looks like 
desertion. I would not enlist for life in any army. 
The right is not so easily ascertained, whatever bel¬ 
lowing, blathering, babbling, presuming monitors 
may assert. Never shut your eyes or close your 
ears in fear. Fear is a most unworthy, treacherous 
guide. He who threatens cannot reason. He who 
would rule by fear despairs of love. Distrust that 
man who tells you that you must listen to nothing 
which is contrary to his teaching. Denunciation 
threatens when argument fails. I am aware that the 
above takes but a partial view, and overlooks the 
/ 14* 


THE IDEALIST. 


162 

power of united effort; but I am writing for the in¬ 
dividual. There are men who must lean upon others 
or fall. It is better they should be erect, though by 
another’s strength. I have written for the strong, 
the self-reliant, the rulers of the world. The strong 
man will find every vow a fetter, every promise a 
band, every consecration to a thought a tyranny. 
The strong are rebels; the weak loyal. 


“BE IRON.” 


I T is not in our power to increase our happiness. 

Happiness is a pruner, not a grafter. Let my 
reader turn back the leaves of his life and carefully 
read them over, and see if any gain ever added to 
his happiness; whether he was happier after he 
bought the house than when he leased it; whether 
competency—that word which no man can define— 
brought him comfort. Perhaps this is not a fair 
test, for no man has ever yet obtained a competency. 
In reading these pages of the past, he will see that 
every basket of fruit had an asp in it. It is not in 
the power of one being to make another happy. 
Doubled imperfection makes not perfection. Two 
faulty beings cannot create a state without fault. 
Weakness cannot drive out weakness and fill the 
space with strength. Sorrow joined to sorrow brings 
not bliss. Services may give ease, but they bring 
not joy. There is a collision between man and 
nature,—he disturbs her and she resents it. Man’s 
triumph over matter will always be fitful, uncertain, 
and liable to overthrow. He must ever be on guard. 
It is this which makes the farmer’s life so toilsome,— 

he meets nature face to face, there is no veil between 

163 



164 


THE IDEALIST. 


them. In truth we drag through our days; the day 
passes. To-day we suffer with heat, to-morrow with 
cold. To-day the pain is upon our right side, to¬ 
morrow upon the left. I am not sure Aaron Burr’s 
advice was not the best,—“ Be iron.” Not iron to 
crush, not iron to hear not the plaintive cry of 
others; but iron to resist, iron to stand firm and bear 
weight without bending. 


FEAR RULES THE WORLD. 


F EAR like a pall covers the world. All living 
creatures fear and fly from each other, and all 
fear and fly from man. Man fears man, and bolts 
and bars him out; nations fear nations, and erect 
forts and build iron-clads to resist his missiles of 
destruction. They give their fear gorgeous names 
and wave banners over it. Yet it is fear alone moves 
them. All men fear disease, want, and death. The 
man without fear never lived, though the vain brag¬ 
gart always is heard. When one of Napoleon’s 
“ bravest” marshals was borne from the field, 
wounded to death, he wildly called upon his em¬ 
peror to save him,—he would not die. The most 
courageous being on earth is a pious woman: her 
unclouded faith enables her to face death as “ brave” 
men do not. Yet fear is the most despicable of 
counsellors and the most destructive of companions. 
A man should turn his face from fear when he finds 
she is by his side. He should close his ears to her 
whisperings and go not in the way she points. 
Fear makes no converts to good, though they may 
enlist under the banners of right. He who calls up 
fear as a motive to well-doing is a false teacher. 

165 



THE IDEALIST. 


166 

Fear cannot lead to good, though she may drive 
towards it. Our constant effort should be to keep 
our souls above and beyond fear. It should never 
rule our actions. Much may be done to conquer 
fear by the steadfast consideration of how little harm 
can be done us. “ Fear not them that can kill the 
body.” This is the full extent of the power of evil. 
By reflection the naturally timid may become brave. 
Man is too weak to inspire fear; his power is too 
limited. Men talk much of courage, because they 
know how little of it they possess. The bravest and 
best-disciplined troops have been stricken with panic. 
How many men are willing to speak their honest 
sentiments on any subject? How many are willing 
to brave the popular impulse ? Most men are not 
only too cowardly to speak the truth, but they will 
join the persecutors of the man who does, even 
though they believe he is right. Others besides 
Peter have said, “ I do not know the man,” though 
their hearts were with him. Great revolutions of 
thought have come from a common impulse, and no 
man led them. I saw the mob which the firing on 
Fort Sumter brought into life as it moved through 
the city of Philadelphia. It moved like a huge ser¬ 
pent. Its head would come to the corner of a street; 
there would be a moment’s pause ; then, as if it were 
one body, it would swing round and, without an ap¬ 
parent dissent, move in one direction. Man has tried 
to persuade himself that he does not fear, and in this 
delusion has created “ heroes,” and has often made 


FEAR RULES THE WORLD . 167 

them from very flimsy material. Printers’ ink has 
made many. Poets, to their eternal shame, have 
immortalized these fictions. Vanity has made more 
heroes than courage or patriotism. I was struck 
with the objects of art produced by an art associa¬ 
tion : they all represented destruction, cruelty, and 
pain. All were defending against objects of fear. 
No sign of love, save love in terror beating back the 
foe. What is the meaning of all this ? Are the 
hearts of men never free from terror? Some would 
have our waters covered with naval armaments, our 
shores lined with forts, our land filled with soldiers. 
For what? For fear that some one will attack us. 
Away with such idle fears ! Let our ships carry corn, 
not cannon; our shores be lined with peaceful habi¬ 
tations, not parapets; and our soldiers bear sheaves 
of grain, not knapsacks. Cease to apotheosize fear. 
See her as she is,—a misleading, misguiding spectre. 
Be brave,—not as the coward who carries the con¬ 
cealed weapon, but as the true man, who walks free, 
believing no man will harm him. 


BOLDNESS A PARTY’S STRENGTH. 



OLICY in a political party is weakness: it is 


-L born of timidity; and when a party listens to 
fearful or compromising counsels its end approaches. 
When it asks leave of its enemies, its mission is 
done. A timid man is no more fit to lead a party 
than a corrupt one: the one will be defeated, the 
other will sow the seeds of death. Uncompromising, 
unyielding devotion to its principles alone will main¬ 
tain a party in life. When it begins to compromise, 
its death is near. If it has the power, it must rule 
absolutely, not heeding the murmurings of its oppo¬ 
nents. No party can endure in the United States 
which has not unflinching boldness. If a selfish 
man endeavors to sow discord, it must drive him 
out. Temporary success may be gained by tem¬ 
porizing and shifting, but the party is weakened for 
future conflicts. Men who are looking for spoils are 
as unfit to lead a political party as an army. The 
tide of many a battle has been turned by reason of 
the victor’s greed for spoils. The party which can¬ 
not suffer defeat does not deserve victory. If a party 
must have constant victory to live, it is not fit to live. 
The weakness of any party is in its office-seekers. 


168 



BOLDNESS A PARTY'S STRENGTH. 169 

It is the office for which they seek, and not the per¬ 
manency of the party. They are the parasites feed¬ 
ing on the party, and they care not if they devour it, 
so they get their fill. The only man who can stand 
firm to principle is the man who asks nothing, who 
wishes nothing. The soldier whom bounty causes 
to enlist will not endure as the soldier whom the 
cause led to join the ranks. Booty never made brave 
soldiers. Prayers to Heaven, not promises of spoils, 
made Cromwell’s ironsides Invincible. 


H 


15 


THE VOW OF INIQUITY. 


HERE is a sort of vow of iniquity, made not in 



JL piety but in the rage of anger,—a vow of separa¬ 
tion, a vow of eternal enmity, which pride keeps when 
reason and returned affection forbid it. This vow will 
not let the vower yield, though the life be sacrificed. 
The tongue of mischief will sneer if this hasty vow— 
made when the heart was filled with venom—should 
yield to a sense of duty, to remorse, or to returned 
reason. These malicious spirits, whose comments 
are feared, will bring no food to hunger, no clothing 
to cold, will not minister to the headache which 
comes in sympathy with the heart’s sadness. They 
will work diligently to dig the grave in which hopes 
are to be buried ; they are as busy as witches among 
the tombstones; but they will not assist to bind up 
a wound; they will pour no oil, though the open 
vinegar-cruet is always in their hands. Why should 
you heed the opinions of those who will do you no 
good ? Then why should you regard their counsel 
when it is not to benefit you, but to gratify some 
malice of their own ? Remember it is you who must 
suffer if you allow the speeches of others to induce 
you to act the part of folly. Remember it is you 



THE VOW OF INIQUITY. I?I 

who must bear the shame, not the counsellor. Akin 
to this is listening to the man who tells you there is 
no wrong in the action, which you know is meant to 
deceive; he who would use your hand, hitherto un¬ 
stained, to assist him in working out his scheme of 
fraud. Be assured that there is no innocent decep¬ 
tion ; crime lurks in it. And criminal codes are now 
so far-reaching that deception is usually made a mis¬ 
demeanor or felony by statute. One man does not 
sign another man’s name without his authority in 
innocence. He does not send the forged letter for a 
proper purpose. I have seen innocence entrapped 
by crafty guilt, and men made criminals in ignorance. 
The scheming villain is plausible; he assures his 
victim there is not the slightest wrong in that which 
he wishes done; that no harm can come from it. 
But when the reckoning comes, when the penalty is 
to be paid, the tempter aggravates the crime and in¬ 
sists that the victim did it of his own volition. He 
has no aid to bring; he will not assume the respon¬ 
sibility of the act; it is his own escape for which he 
looks. He leaves his deceived victim to bear the 
shame, to bear the imprisonment. That man who 
deceives or persuades another into a criminal act will 
be the first to fly from him. Honor is found among 
honest men, not among thieves. Whatever there 
may be among them which has the appearance of 
honor is the bond of fear, and comes from the neces¬ 
sity of standing by each other. This test will always 
tell the inexperienced whether crime lurks in the 


THE IDEALIST. 


172 

action : is it meant to deceive ? if it is, have no part in 
it. Look upon the man who suggests it as your 
deadliest enemy. The honest man does not hide 
behind the bush; it is the highwayman and the mur¬ 
derer who does. The young man who prizes his 
good name may find it tarnished by one act of folly; 
and he may wash it with many and bitter tears, but 
the stain remains. Remember this; the world never 
pardons, never forgives. You may as well expect 
the amputated limb to grow again as a lost repu¬ 
tation to be restored. Once found false you will 
never be trusted. Fearful of the individual, timid 
capital has reposed its trust in corporations. They 
too have proved false, and so will they continue 
to be found. It is the hand of man which guides, 
whether the depositary bear a name of baptism and 
inheritance, or a name given by virtue of an act of 
incorporation. They fall alike, by the weakness of 
human nature, from the fitness of opportunity mis¬ 
named temptation, from opportunity which devel¬ 
oped the thief; temptation is from within, not from 
without; from the fitting time and place. I have 
written no sketch drawn from fancy. I have written 
of that which I have seen. I cannot say that the 
man who consents to play a part in the drama of 
deception is wholly guileless, though he may not 
clearly see the character of the part which has been 
given him. A thoroughly honest nature would in¬ 
stinctively feel that there was something wrong. He 
who has to be taught honesty, like he who has to be 


THE VOW OF INIQUITY. 


173 


taught to be a gentleman, will always have the taint 
of the dross about him. Honest men and gentlemen, 
like poets, are “ born, not made.” If honesty must 
be proved by argument, it can never be known when 
the eyes of the thief will be looking over it. 


15* 


ROMANCE’S DEATH. 



HE first wail of infancy closes life’s romance. 


Romance will not carry a babe on his back. 
Its tiny fingers close that part of the book of life in 
which its poetry is written, and open the page of 
prose. Romance is too selfish to be burdened with 
childhood. A mother does not sit on primrose banks 
to listen to the stream’s lullaby ; still she sings a song, 
but not for her own ear. She sings a song the most 
touching, not of selfish love; the song the angels 
sung over the babe of Bethlehem. Romance claims 
immortal love; the babe brings it as an inheritance. 
Childhood is the conqueror of selfishness ; it demands 
self-sacrifice. It has but little to give in return for 
complete self-yielding. It takes much; it returns 
scantily; sometimes cruelty for unbounded love. As 
water runs downward, so does love; it takes force to 
turn it backward. Love belongs to its contemporaries; 
it knows not the generation which has passed. Age 
is wrong when it demands the love of youth; it can 
return no equivalent It may, perhaps, claim some¬ 
thing which goes by the name of gratitude,—a claim 
which is a burden to give and a burden to receive. 
The selfish will not yield it; the generous do not 



ROMANCE'S DEATH. 


175 


desire it. Romantic love opens the gate of this more 
absorbing love, which but for it would remain closed. 
I presume it was put into the human heart as a har¬ 
binger of the love which loses self. Not until mother- 
love fills her own heart does she comprehend the 
full force of her mother’s love. Mother-love alone 
can understand mother-love, can know its fulness. 


“ HONORABLE MENTION.” 


NEW judicial office had been suggested, and, as 



usual, before the place was provided a crop of 
candidates sprung up; for the hunger for office an¬ 
ticipates legislative action as well as death,—it never 
patiently waits. Law-makers and death move too 
slowly for it; it would hurry both. Gambling and 
office-seeking, which are near akin, alike dry up the 
human heart; both bring to the surface every atom 
of selfishness, and sink every kindly feeling. A 
young man was giving his opinion as to the fitting 
person. The office, said he, should be filled by a very 
young man, or by a very old one. The “ young 
man” was himself, the “ old man” his father. Strong, 
middle life was excluded. He was a type of which 
every community produces specimens. No respect¬ 
able office is vacant for which their names are not 
mentioned. Every shoe in the shop will fit their 
feet, or rather their feet will fit every shoe. They 
are mentioned, but never chosen. Their time never 
comes: if they would wait his circuits, they might 
thrust their hands in his wallet as he passes; but 
they are always behind him. The community be¬ 
come weary of their names. A name cannot bear 


176 



“ HONORABLE MENTION.” 


1/7 


too much sunshine: it will wither. If the office- 
seeker would keep in the race he must rest, for if he 
falls from exhaustion he can never join it again. Its 
track has no place for lameness, and it knows no re¬ 
suscitation. The fainting candidate falls forever. It 
has no pity for weakness; no sympathy for wounds. 


m 


THE CHILD OF IGNORANCE. 


STENTATION is the child of ignorance; it 



dies before self-knowledge. The wisest men 
are the humblest; not humble before their fellow- 
men, for that would be weakness bending to weak¬ 
ness, but humble before that great power which 
moves the universe. Possessions are no part of the 
man; he did not create them, and they will exist 
when dust dissipates his identity. Another weak 
man will call them his own and be equally vain of 
that which belongs to him only in his imagination. 
A piece of paper says they are his, and that is all. 
If poverty snatches that paper from his hand, they 
are no longer his. The only true possession the in¬ 
dividual man has is his limited knowledge; that dis¬ 
ease may obscure, derangement may hide, but its 
work death will not blot out. When I see a petty 
mortal, with not a trace even of human beauty in his 
face, ugly from the tips of his toes to the top of his 
head, who never has done anything of which the world 
could make a note, with paucity of intellect, without 
a single mental acquirement or accomplishment, act¬ 
ing as though he filled a large space in creation, I 
query of the use of wisdom. The slightest self-search 


178 



THE CHILD OF IGNORANCE . 


179 


would make him miserable. Man as compared with 
his fellows may sometimes find room for self-con¬ 
gratulation ; but when he looks at his place in nature, 
save only for that soul which links him with the 
eternal, he would sink. Compare the most beaute¬ 
ous face with the complexion of the rose-leaf, and 
see the folly of the vanity of beauty. It is the soul 
alone, the receptacle of knowledge, which lifts us up. 
Earth, no matter what its shape may be, cannot; that 
drags us to earth, where we die. The body may be 
fed, and it grows gross and sinks to earth ; the soul 
may be fed, and it grows stronger for its upward 
flight. 


THE “BAD BOOK.” 


M AN’S intolerant self-esteem will never permit 
him to learn the lesson that thought cannot 
be forced or killed. If true, it cannot be destroyed; 
if inane, neglect it and it will die. Force tears off 
the rags from a falsehood, which would otherwise 
perish, and clothes it in attractive garments. Men 
then embrace her, who otherwise would pass her 
in contempt. No advertisement equals that of the 
law’s condemnation of a book. Silence is the gulf 
which would swallow it. The overt act alone, not 
words, should the law punish. A republic needs no 
censor, and the people of the United States will 
permit no official to say what they shall read. If 
he says to them, You shall not, they reply, We will. 
Trust the people, trust the common conscience, they 
will separate the tares from the wheat. Humanity 
and human thought have made their progress in 
spite of power. Governments in their very nature go 
backward. Power hates the new, for it may break 
it. It is the people behind it who push it forward, 
or beneath who upheave it. No greater folly than 
for a government to make war upon a book. Such 

a war starts the presses and incites the reader. This 
180 



THE “BAD BOOKT l8l 

plain lesson, written all over the pages of the past, 
still is unheeded, because power is always drunk, 
never sober. It is the nature of power to intoxicate. 
If the people let go the reins for a moment, destruc¬ 
tion menaces them. Who is to decide whether the 
book is bad ? There are men who would drive out 
a book if it denied their creeds. The maxims upon 
which our government is built have been deemed 
heresies, and destructive of all social order. Their 
advocates have gone to the scaffold. No man lives 
who is wise enough to declare, This is true and that 
is false. No body of men that ever assembled had 
truth and wisdom ever sitting among them. False¬ 
hood and folly always had seats, and self-deception 
never ceased to flap her clammy wings over them. 
The spirit of evil has no weapon more powerful than 
a pernicious book; and he who writes one does not 
sin as a man, but as a fiend. The pleasure of read¬ 
ing is in the fact that the writer thinks for us. The 
mind is engaged without any effort of its own. It 
simply absorbs. The only remedy is to make the 
mind healthy; then like the healthy palate it will 
reject the unwholesome food. I have no confidence 
in the reforming power of force, of the healthfulness 
of repression. Vile writers, like vile humors in the 
body, must be allowed to burst forth; let it be seen 
that they are but corruption; if confined, the poison 
circulates through the whole body. Let force punish, 
it cannot restrain. Waters will gather and finally 

overleap any barrier; so with human thought, if right, 

16 


182 


THE IDEALIST. 


it will gather till the obstructions of power are over¬ 
leaped or torn asunder. The less power shows itself 
the longer will it last. The less it commands the 
more will it be obeyed. But few men need to be 
governed by other men; and he who assumes he is 
fit to govern should serve. 


THE STEADFAST HEART. 


rHE spirit of independence is in the man, not in 
■*- the fortune. Sycophancy is in the blood, not 
in the purse. It is self-respect which refuses the 
favor, not the pocket-book. He must be rich is said 
of the man who does not stoop. He may be, or he 
may not be; poverty would not bend him. Lofti¬ 
ness is in the soul, not in banks and lands. The 
brave soul is firm, though it has no earthworks to 
support it. The lover of notoriety has not a stead¬ 
fast heart. That spirit makes him restless and un¬ 
stable. He cares not whose banner he bears so that 
he unfurls it and the multitude shout. He will paint 
his name upon the rocks if men will read it. It is 
not abiding fame he seeks, that is above him; it 
is the noise of to-day. This spirit makes a man 
wretched. Repose is necessary to happiness, and 
this man has none. Age does not calm him; disap¬ 
pointment does not cure him. If he could he would 
die upon the mountain-top where all men might wit¬ 
ness his exit in life’s drama. Note his wandering 
eyes, watching for recognition. His speech ever 
ready, and if possible to the exclusion of every other 
voice. He fails in his object: people look at him, 

183 



THE IDEALIST. 


184 

but in weariness. He watches for notice as the 
fisher-bird watches for prey; if he catches it, he de¬ 
vours it in greediness. A man in love with notoriety 
cannot be true to any cause. He is false, not from 
treachery, but from vanity. He will desert to lead, 
and return if he fails. His tongue is his foe, and his 
speech destroys him. Full of vanity himself, he has 
no respect for other men’s self-love. He tramples 
that he may climb. Bitter failure is the fate of such 
a man. The world soon turns its eyes from the man 
on exhibition, from the man of antics and somer¬ 
saults. We don’t care to look long upon the man 
who is balancing on his head. No effort can com¬ 
mand fame, no juggling tricks can insure notoriety. 
Uneasiness brings not fame, for it refuses steadfast 
work. Forget yourself in your work if you would 
obtain men’s praise. He who toils for praise alone 
will never get it. Men do not praise a man for what 
he does for himself, but for that which he does for 
them. This disease is incurable; it leads to a spe¬ 
cies of insanity; to insane delusions of the impor¬ 
tance of self. Counsel to a man filled with this spirit 
is lost. In vain do you point to his failures as 
evidences of the truth of your counsel. I know of 
no passion so absorbing, no passion which shuts out 
reason like unto the passion for notoriety. A man 
may have the passion within him, and it may never 
be awakened; but if aroused, the only sleep it will 
know will be the sleep of death. Such a man never 
grows old; he never heeds the birthdays which are 


THE STEADFAST HEART 


i8 5 


flying by. His great work is yet to be done. True, 
it is not begun, but the future has boundless time. 
Such a man is full of envy. He hears the trumpet, 
which sounds not for him, as though it was the 
screech-owl’s cry. It fills his soul with envy. Envy 
walks with every selfish spirit; and the seeker after 
notoriety is enveloped with self as with a cloud. I 
know no more unhappy spirit. Driven as by a 
demon, he knows no rest. 


INTELLECT CANNOT BE DULLED TO 

HAPPINESS. 


I T would seem as though nature designed that 
there should be equality among men. If she 
gives personal beauty she suffers years or disease to 
take it away, and the suffering and grief for its loss 
far over-balance any joy it ever gave. Superiority 
of intellect brings greater capacity for unhappiness. 
This is the old story, told in the biography of genius. 
It has been said that many of the woes of genius 
could have been avoided by common prudence; but 
the man had not the prudence, and so he suffered 
for want of it. Money will banish the ills of poverty; 
yet if the man has not the money the poverty must 
remain. The content of the dull is said to be nega¬ 
tive happiness; still, is not that better than positive 
misery ? The keen edge may be dulled, but violence 
must do it. The eagle may not fly; but his wings 
must be stripped or broken. Intellect cannot be 
dulled to happiness. I doubt whether the greatest 
writing ever penned gave any happiness to the 
author,—it sapped his life’s blood and gave no re¬ 
turn. It is the reader who gets the benefit, not the 
writer. When nature gives more strength, she binds 



INTELLECT NOT DULLED TO HAPPINESS. 187 

greater burdens. If every man was known, no man 
would be envied. Men hide to appear happy. Not 
until his spirit is broken does man confess his grief. 
But for pride life would be a wail; that keeps men 
silent. 


MEN TEAR THE THREAD OF THEIR 

LIVES. 


D EATH does not always cut the thread of men’s 
lives; they have torn it strand by strand; they 
leave nothing to cut. Men pile up money, not to 
reap good, but to struggle for life. The fortune is 
gained, the health wasted in getting it, then it is 
used to seek some spot, not where comfort may be 
found, but where life may be coaxed to stay in the 
worn-out body. A grand conclusion for a life’s 
work! Its strong years spent that a few miserable 
ones may with difficulty be held. They have not 
used life, they have torn it. They think they have 
seen life, they have but anticipated death. In spite 
of gloomy hymns, of dyspeptic essays of teachers 
who dwell in caverns, there is real joy in life if men 
would be content with that which is in the world, 
and not wear themselves out in seeking that which 
is not to be found. It is in mistaking life’s capacity 
that men make themselves miserable; and in their 
greed to get the means to buy that which no man 
has to sell, they make other men wretched. Ma¬ 
terial earth, no matter how much of it may be shov¬ 
elled up, cannot comfort the soul. Cost is not hap¬ 
piness. I said to a client to-day, Be calm; heat will 
not aid us. We are all chasing phantoms. The 

difference is, some have a notion they are phantoms, 

188 



MEN TEAR THE THREAD OF THEIR LIVES, jg g 

others believe they are realities. The good of earth 
we will overlook. We all believe it is necessary to 
striiggle as we do; that the waters of want will en¬ 
gulf us if we for one moment are still. Yet we may 
move in pain or in calmness. Then again comes the 
objection,—all men are not strong. Many are so 
weak that nothing but the most desperate efforts 
keep them from sinking. The sensitive, the timid, 
the shrinking, those lacking in self-confidence, I see 
them around me, and I see the strong bearing down 
upon them. The noblest souls I know barely get 
their daily bread. Men have always seen this; none 
can explain it. None can point out a remedy. All 
of the remedies destroy the individual. A man can¬ 
not be made a cog in a wheel. And this distress 
another man cannot destroy; if he gives money, he 
but puts another sorrow in the place of the one he 
pushed out; the sorrow of dependence, the grief for 
loss of self-respect. He gives ease to the body and 
pain to the soul. He saves the tenement, but ruins 
the tenant. If we carry another we weaken his 
limbs. If- we assist him, we wound him. “ Charity” 
cannot relieve him; it but changes the burden. 
Which way shall we turn ? We cannot give all men 
strength,—no organization can do that. We do but 
little for a man when we simply keep breath in his 
body. No man will grow strong who leans on an¬ 
other. The man who is always looking for help will 
grow weaker every day. Each man must solve this 
problem for himself; another cannot do it for him. 


LITERARY ASPIRATIONS. 


M ANY aspire, many attempt, yet but few are 
chosen. Aspiration is not performance. Self¬ 
esteem is not ability. But few the names which live 
in literature. The dictionary will supply the words, 
but the writer must supply the thought. Words 
float around us, the common property of all men; 
thought dwells alone. Printed pages make not lit¬ 
erature. I read the other day that a certain politician 
had “ literary aspirations.” Life is pretty well ad¬ 
vanced upon him, and yet he has only breathed the 
wish; most likely it will be but a breath,—an as¬ 
piring. Breathing a wish will not do; it would be 
better to show his aspiration by a work. The great 
difficulty with men who have “ aspirations” is that 
they do not begin. Perhaps if they did they would 
only discover their want of power. So the “ aspira¬ 
tion” fills the imagination, when it would collapse 
before the real work. The gulf between the wish 
and the performance is so wide that few can leap 
over it. If in this man’s life, if in his contact with 
men, he thinks he has observed that which has not 
already been noted, or that he can present some 

motive of human action in a more striking light, let 
190 



LITERAR Y AS FIR A TIONS. 


I 9 1 


him give it to the world, not as literary work, not 
as a workman who simply manipulates words, but 
as a producer of mental food. The world is weary 
of literary work, of delvers in the worked-out mine. 
If he has discovered a new mine, no matter how few 
the nuggets, let him display them; but no polishers 
and burnishers of old gold are wanted. Thought- 
producers are always welcome ; literary workers are 
useless. They wear off the golden thought; they do 
not brighten it. Certain historical characters should 
be allowed to rest. Some writers can only find ma¬ 
terial in graveyards. They are ever digging among 
the tombs. The probability is that this literary “ as¬ 
pirant” has nothing to give; that he will never come 
out of the land of dreams. Years have taught that 
which youth does not know, that public life rarely 
brings permanent fame, and that its work does not 
touch the hearts of men. Its questions are transient 
and mostly selfish. Its talk is of merchandise, and 
touches not the soul; and that touch alone can give 
a lasting place in the bosoms of men. A few words 
with the divine brush will live; the speeches of pub¬ 
lic men mostly die with their birth. Ages cannot 
cover with dust the sublimity to be found in books; 
yet the spot where cities stood cannot be marked. 
There may seem to be an asperity in the above. I 
admit it, but the presumption which assumes that it 
can do that which it has never attempted is so nause¬ 
ating and so general that it excites indignation and 
contempt. Show me your work; do not tell me of 


192 


THE IDEALIST. 


your “ aspirations.” Let me see your performance, 
not your self-confidence. If you have the gift of the 
writer, it will manifest itself It will write, not as¬ 
pire. I am satisfied from what I have seen of men that 
it is the delusion of vanity, the shelter of envy, which 
assumes that they have undeveloped powers. No 
poverty can chill the hand of him who has the gift 
to write. We display all of our wares in the market 
of life. We have no concealed packages ; and if our 
goods are faulty and defective, or if our stock is lim¬ 
ited, still have we shown all we have. When the 
column of our performances is added up, the total is 
our value. We may think it should be more, that 
we could have made it more; this is but self-decep¬ 
tion. The crop may be gathered early, or it may be 
gathered late. Yet early or late it is our only har¬ 
vest. We may say it was blighted; that is not so; 
the soil would produce no more. Others can aid us 
but little. If we have anything to give we will give 
it, and we need not the aid of others to open the 
mind’s coffers, or, to speak more strictly, if others 
aid in their opening. Yet as the man is, so will he 
be found,—full or empty. Others may fill him with 
borrowed thoughts, but the man’s own soul alone can 
fill him with new. He need not write who borrows. 
It is better to read the original than the quotation. 
Act; do not sit and breathe and call it “aspiration.” 
You may plough a field in your dreams, but its grain 
will not feed you. Dream-land is cheap, and easily 
cultivated. “ Aspirations” may be breathed as you 


LITERAR V ASP IRA TIONS. 


193 


rock to and fro in the easy-chair. You may fall 
asleep breathing them, and dream you see your name 
on the back of the thumbed volume. Yet will it not 
be there. It is all toil. Is it not a pleasure for you 
to write ? said a friend to me. No: it is labor. I 
would prefer to sit in indolence. I have the gift of 
laziness. Yet I try to reject the gift. Often the 
spirit conquers me, and I do not wish to raise my 
hand. I, too, have had “ literary aspirations” from my 
boyhood. I have tried to write, and from that time 
have I rushed into print; and I suppose while I can 
hold a pen I will be telling other men what I think 
of them, and I fear, telling too much of myself. The 
world does not care for our opinion of ourselves. 
Those who know us have labelled us, and it is vain 
for us to tell them their superscription is wrong; that 
we are much better, greater, wiser than they have 
written us down. They will not change the label or 
put us on another shelf. We may think we are far 
superior to the company in which they have placed 
us, yet will they not take us down and transfer us. 
They heed not that which we say of ourselves, ex¬ 
cept as food for ridicule. Success to the man of 
“ literary aspirations.” May the balloon never burst 
or take fire. May he never be dragged over the 
sharp points of critics’ pens. May he continue to 
dream of that which he is to do, and may the fairies 
bind chaplets upon his brows, for mortals never will. 
No man is content with the place assigned him, be 
it at a feast or at a meeting of his profession. He is 
1 n 17 


194 


THE IDEALIST. 


astonished when he learns the plane upon which he 
is put; he is indignant at the companionship which 
is assumed to be his equal; he is offended that he is 
not put higher. If he is asked to address a public 
meeting he is astounded at the place assigned him, 
that such a man should be thought his equal. On 
these occasions he sees the weights which are put 
in the scale to balance him. He thought he far out¬ 
weighed them. Neither are right. One is an over¬ 
estimate, the other an under-valuing. 


INGRATES ARE BORN OF FLATTERERS. 



MAN who requires too much deference will not 


^ have reliable friends. His equals will not 
yield it to him, and those who do yield it follow him 
for gain. Manifested and offensive self-esteem de¬ 
stroys friendship, for it forbids equality, which is the 
life of friendship. True friendship can only exist 
among equals. There must be neither looking up¬ 
ward nor downward. We cannot see a friend if we 
have to look downward for him; a mist obscures 
him. We cannot see him by looking upward, for he 
is out of the reach of our vision. Self-conscious men 
are not agreeable. To please others self must be 
forgotten. If we are thinking of the impression we 
are making, we may be assured that it is unfavor¬ 
able. Personality jars personality; and he who 
most presses self back will be the most beloved. 
Our personality has sharp angles, and they wound 
the self-love of others. The most uncomfortable 
companion is he whose dignity is tender and must 
be cared for. His equal will not sufficiently respect 
it; he therefore turns to his inferiors. To be agree¬ 
able we must be without timidity. Timidity of man¬ 
ner may flatter a sort of vanity, but it burdens alike 



196 


THE IDEALIST. 


its possessor and he who inspires it. No man bows 
low from love. He does it through fear or interest. 
Ingrates are born of flatterers. The ingrate is made* 
because the office is bestowed upon the suitor, not 
upon the worthy. If he who has an office to give 
would bestow unasked upon the fitting he would 
not have reason to complain of ingratitude. Humil¬ 
iation is followed by ingratitude. When he stoops 
to enter the ingrate appears. He who requires 
humility must expect ingratitude. The proud man 
is not ungrateful. The ingrate picks up the pieces 
of torn self-respect and fashions the robe of unthank¬ 
fulness. He who demands deference must not ex¬ 
pect to have a friend. Fear drives out love. I saw 
a young girl who was bathing in the ocean wave her 
hat to “pap” as if to a girl companion. I said to a 
friend standing near me, I do not know who “ pap” 
is, but I am sure he is a “ good fellow.” His daugh¬ 
ter loves him, and not only shows no signs of fear, 
but her manner proves that there is a loving com¬ 
panionship between them. I tried to distinguish 
“ pap,” but could not for the crowd. The man who 
requires that all the offices of friendship shall min¬ 
ister to him will never have a friend. They who 
carry obeisance expect to return with their baskets 
filled with favors. It is not friendship’s offering they 
bring, but goods to the market. Man was not born 
to do reverence to his fellow-man. When it is given, 
violence is done to a law of nature. As all have the 
infirmities of a common humanity, so none can be so 


INGRATES ARE BORN OF FLATTERERS. 197 

far above the others as to demand humility. The 
weakness of man becomes not a god. To obtain 
this reverence ignorance and superstition have been 
called to the aid of darkness ; for the theatre of the 
human mind must be darkened for these gloomy 
shadows to appear. To know friendship she must 
be met. She will not come to us as we sit still. She 
obeys no demands. She answers no imperious calls. 
She comes because she is met, or comes not at all. 


WE STUMBLE AT OUR OWN DEEDS. 


O care will keep the path of life smooth. Each 



•i ^ day we throw a stone in our own way and 
stumble over it. We will speak the foolish word and 
repent; or, in a moment of anger, we send the bitter 
taunt which is never forgotten,—a bullet which no 
probing can reach. And we resolve that to-morrow 
we will be wise; and before the day ends folly again 
mocks us and counts one more score against us. 
While the theory of a “ ruling passion” is contra¬ 
dicted by experience, yet are these geysers of hot, 
scalding, ebullitious temper ready at any moment to 
burst forth. Our words are often more terrible than 
we imagine; perhaps he is ready to faint from 
wounds received, and our wound is the crushing 
blow. Of nothing have I repented as of hot, bitter 
words; but while I could sorrow for them, he to 
whom they were spoken could not forget them. 
Words need more guarding than actions. Words 
are ready; action has more hesitation. But I need 
not write of that which every day’s experience points 
out and confirms. 


198 



MAN AND WOMAN. 


M EN find joy in mirth ; women in tears. I make 
this statement from my observation of the 
audiences of the theatre. A play which is washed in 
tears draws women,—largely the young, for the old 
have shed too many tears over real woe, though 
they will weep with the young if present; men are 
ashamed to weep; women love to bathe their faces 
in drops of fictitious sorrow. Yet men are more 
ready to open their purses; quicker with the helping 
hand. The woman pities and passes on ; the man has 
not so much sentiment, but he stops to help. I am 
afraid that pressing women into men’s occupations 
must work evil for both sexes. A woman by early 
and severe toil may acquire a man’s strength, but it 
sacrifices the woman. The desire for personal beauty 
is the strongest wish of a woman’s heart. She may 
overcome it, when the attractive form and face have 
been utterly denied her; but she will cling to the 
faintest charm, and refuse to yield to the monitions 
of time, all of which is inconsistent with severe, pa¬ 
tient toil. She makes but an indifferent imitation of 
man. She lacks strength. Man must always bear 

the heavy burden. In some respects her moral per- 

199 



200 


THE IDEALIST. 


ceptions are higher than those of man; in others, she 
is below him. How far this is due to education 
cannot be known. Man has taught her that to be 
faithful to him is her highest duty; that her chief 
ornament is his chain about her neck; and other 
faults are condoned if she is true to this exaction. 
One virtue alone has been taught her; and it is not 
to be wondered at that she has disregarded others. 
I am not writing a catalogue of her defects; when I 
have none myself I will undertake it. If a woman 
feels that a husband is not necessary to her happi¬ 
ness, it is her right to live alone. The first duty of 
every man and every woman is to himself, to her¬ 
self; the duty to society is secondary. Neither is 
called upon to sacrifice himself or herself for others. 
God requires no sacrifice, and man should not. Duty 
is not a sacrifice, and calls for none. One man is 
not required to die for another; each life is equally 
precious. God never required a death, save as a 
debt due to nature. The first inquiry which every 
man and woman should make is, What course will 
bring me most happiness ? If he or she thinks that 
toiling for others, and forgetting self, will bring most 
of joy, let them so live, and raise a crop of ingrates. 
I would not deny woman access to any pursuit or 
profession. She is in mine and I do not object. I 
do not think it is suited to her, but that is for ex¬ 
perience to test. In my opinion the end will be a 
revolution, coming from the utter failure to make 
men of women; for men they must be in thought 


MAN AND WOMAN. 


201 


and strength if they would do man’s work. No 
doubt that many chains which selfishness and jeal¬ 
ousy have forged should be broken. And a woman 
should be as free as a man. If she wants his coat, 
let her wear it, if she feels easier in it. In the past 
she has had much to complain of in man’s dealings 
with her. And that he has thus unjustly dealt with 
her shows that he is the stronger. The weak are 
not unjust to the strong. Unbind the limbs, cut 
the cords of craft, of military domination and su¬ 
perstition, and let the man, the woman be free,—free, 
as Jefferson puts it, “ to pursue their own happiness.” 
Still man’s duties and woman’s duties are apart: in 
the order of nature it is so; their mingling must 
bring unhappiness to both. Individual women may 
be benefited by entering man’s domain ; because they 
have especial strength and are not hampered by a 
truly feminine nature. In their disposition nature 
has encroached upon man. The more of the woman 
the less of desire to escape from woman’s attributes. 
Those who desire to escape quarrel with their 
womanhood. They are discontent with it. Most 
that woman does she does less thoroughly, less 
perfectly, than man. She has written well, yet she 
has never equalled that which man has written. As 
a sovereign, it has been a man’s strong hand which 
has given glory to her reign. Nature has set her 
limits; she has prescribed her bounds, and they 
cannot be passed. Her laws must be obeyed or 
the penalty suffered. Violent methods accomplish 


202 


THE IDEALIST. 


no good purpose. Woman cannot be benefited by 
anything which does violence to the laws of her 
being. The interests of men and women are not 
separate, they are linked together; woman cannot 
be degraded without lowering man. It is human 
rights, not man’s rights or woman’s rights, which 
should be regarded. What is best for both ? 


“ SOCIAL POSITION.” 


“ OOCIAL position” depends upon assumption 
^ and presumption with sufficient money or as¬ 
surance to maintain them; without these requisites it 
can neither be obtained nor retained. It has no laws, 
for it has no legislators or executive to make or en¬ 
force them. It fluctuates with fortune, accident, and 
dies from weakness. The gypsies are said to have 
queens whose authority all recognize, but the social 
clans have none. Various usurpers arise, but the 
crown is never bestowed. Its normal state is war ;• its 
chief weapon detraction; this arrow whizzes as it 
passes through the air the inquiry, “ Who is he ?” No 
answer is expected; the bow is drawn to wound. Social 
position, as it is generally understood, is absolutely 
useless : it brings no business; it brings no profit; it 
brings no happiness; nothing but unrest. I say it 
brings nothing, in truth it is never found. Queens 
have been accused (I use the word accused with a 
knowledge of its meaning) of having poor relations; 
and poor relations will undermine any social posi¬ 
tion. All are held responsible for their relations. 
It is true they have not been searched for or asked 
for or desired, yet they exist to plague and shame 
the holder of social position. Never seek for social 
position if you desire it; assume that you have it; 
and if you have assurance enough and persistence 

203 



204 


THE IDEALIST. 


enough, your title to a dwelling-place in this coveted 
land will be as good as that of any other schemer. 
No action of ejectment can be maintained against 
you, because, while there will be malcontents enough 
to issue writs which question your title, there is no 
court whose decisions are respected to try your title, 
and no social sheriff to eject you. When you get out, 
you simply fall out of the bed of imagination in 
which you have been dreaming; you awake and find 
that you have been searching for dreamland, and are 
on a floor made of common pine boards. You can¬ 
not get away from “ common” things and “ common 
people.” You must breathe common air and eat 
ordinary bread; and while God will give you the air 
you do not deserve, as you have called his creatures 
common, yet your bread depends upon the toil of 
common people, without whom you could not live 
one day. If a superior being notes the doings of 
men, how contemptible must seem this struggle for 
precedence; not precedence from good and useful 
works, but precedence in worthlessness. If social 
position was to be gained by usefulness, by good 
works; if the better the man the higher his social 
position, to acquire it would be commendable; but 
the height of social position is in inverse proportion 
to usefulness. Its loudest claimant is the idler; it 
bars out the worker. Social position permits not 
the dust of toil to rest upon it. Its votaries are as 
useless as hooting owls; they sleep by day and de¬ 
vour by night. Useful men have shipwrecked their 


“SOCIAL POSITION” 


205 


happiness in their craving for social position. It 
catches the eye of the young, for it glitters. It is 
covered with tinsel; but he will find that the search 
for it does not push him forward in life. It is the 
mass of the people who do that. It will not teach 
him the true courtesy of life, for selfishness dwells in 
all its borders. It is the land of self, and every one 
who assumes to possess it has an outstretched hand 
to push all other voyagers back into the “ common” 
sea of humanity. Give yourself no concern as to 
your social position; your honor may be taken away 
from you, but your self-respect never; that you must 
lose or throw away; and if you have that for your 
support you will not wear your life out in seeking 
social position. This weakness seems to be under¬ 
mining our social system. It discards true merit; 
and true merit forgets itself when it bows to this 
usurpation. Choose your friends from those who 
love you; they who love you not, avoid. Do not 
make yourself wretched by seeking the society of 
those who care not for you. No gilding, no forms, 
no hollow courtesy can supply the place of love. 
You cannot force yourself to a permanent position 
in any social circle. You may be far superior, yet 
for artificial reasons the doors may be closed against 
you. This does not lessen you or injure you, for it 
may be unworthy of you. You become contempt¬ 
ible only when you persist in knocking at doors 
which have been shut against you. You must float 

into society as the chip floats upon the stream, and 

18 


206 


THE IDEALIST. 


not think to stem it, as the vessel driven by steam. 
No man can be despised unless he makes himself 
despicable. No matter what may be his position 
from birth,—fortune or misfortune,—if he respects 
himself he will never be despised. Sneers are for 
those who seek and are rejected ; never for the man 
who dignifies his position, whatever that may be. I 
repeat, that no man can confer honor upon another 
man. He may give him baubles, which are called 
honors, but they do not change the man; he remains 
as nature and his own actions have made him. It is 
the fallacy of supposing that others can honor, which 
has led to this search in misery for social position. 
True happiness is disregarded, peace of mind is sac¬ 
rificed, self-respect trampled upon for a thing as 
empty and valueless as the balloon which amuses the 
child through the summer’s day; save that the toy 
gives joy to the child as he sees it float through the 
air, while the other is but misery in vanity. To be 
self-contained, unmoved by the opinions of others, is 
the great secret of happiness; there is none like 
unto it. He who fixes his happiness upon the opin¬ 
ions of others, who weighs his joy as others think 
well or ill of him, will be ever miserable. 

Honor cannot be acquired by office. If it is con¬ 
ferred because the man is worthy, he was worthy 
before it was conferred. The office did not make 
him worthy. If he is unworthy, the office cannot 
make him worthy. The office may expose his unfit¬ 
ness and incompetency, but it cannot give either fit- 


“SOCIAL POSITION 


207 


ness or competency. In itself office brings no honor, 
and no honor is given with it. It gives opportunity 
for service or failure. I have been told of men who 
have sought office for the purpose of acquiring social 
position. Nothing more delusive. While the office 
remains, a certain kind of deference is shown from 
interest, which ends with the office. He is a weak 
man and lacking in manly spirit who accepts social 
invitations while in office, which would not be given 
him as a man without the office. Position built upon 
office crumbles with the loss of the office. A man 
sinks or rises to the level of his manhood. Office is 
a wave that lifts him only to leave him stranded 
upon the shore when it recedes. If social position 
comes to you, it is well; but never chase it, for it can 
never be caught. It is empty when the wind blows 
it in your hand ; it is a false light leading you through 
mire when you run after it. I see so much cringing, 
and such a lack of true pride of character, that in my 
contempt I may go beyond the true line, set up a 
false pride, and call forth an unsocial spirit; but it 
is better to lean back than to bend forward. It is bet¬ 
ter to be unsocial than fawning; a misanthrope than 
a sycophant. Manhood is sold cheap, no matter 
what its price may be; for there is no price which is 
an equivalent for it. My wish is to administer a 
tonic which will give firmness to the man. Interest 
is always tempting a surrender of manhood. Power 
has no love for the independent spirit; it loves him 
who seeks its favors. 


OFFICE-SEEKING. 


E ARTH has no bitterness which equals the bit¬ 
terness produced by office-seeking. Nothing 
so quickly drives friends apart. It has a curse upon 
its lips and a dagger in its bosom. It will heap the 
one upon him who has not done all which was ex¬ 
pected of him, and strike the other in the back of the 
friend who stands in the way. All is staked upon 
it; so that success is life, failure death. It makes no 
allowance for changed circumstances, for inability to 
perform promises. Nothing can be seen but the dis¬ 
appointment. It neglects business and generally 
ends in bankruptcy. I have known but few men 
benefited by it. It has made more drunkards and 
more outcasts than any social force. The man who 
leaves the independence of private business to seek 
an office commits the error of his life. If he suc¬ 
ceeds he is a slave; if he fails he is ruined. I know 
of no slavery like that which binds the office-holder 
who has neither fortune nor business to fall back upon 
in the event of losing his place. He startles at every 
shadow of opposition; his lips are sealed for fear of 
giving offence. I do not mean to say that this bit¬ 
terness always follows him into his relations with 
208 



OFFICE-SEEKING. 


209 


life apart from his office-seeking, for it does not. 
Some of the most kindly men I know have held office 
most of their lives. This is especially true of those 
who hold minor places. It is the strife of office¬ 
seeking of which I write,—the conflict of rivals. 
Slanders fall like hailstones in a storm. Bitterness 
drops from one corner of the mouth and invective 
from the other. Humanity is buried, and hate 
dances on its grave. Demons take the place of men. 
War has its code of honor; office-seeking has none. 


o 


18 * 


SELF-ASSERTION. 


H OW shall a man assert himself? Many men 
fail in life for want of self-assertion. Yet many 
fail from too much self-confidence. Of those who 
fail from too much self-confidence, I include those 
who fail from expansion in trade. Of all the causes 
of failure this is the most constant and uniform. A 
moderate success, due to accident, favorable location, 
demand for a certain class of goods, or fashion is in¬ 
terpreted to be the result of great business capacity. 
Enlargement and extension follow; debts are con¬ 
tracted in confidence: the fashion changes; the tide 
of business turns, and the confident aeronaut falls to 
the ground, a cripple for life. He has mistaken his 
capacity. Men are defeated in the battle of life be¬ 
cause they do not know the calibre of their guns. 
They overcharge them and are themselves destroyed. 
This is the antithesis of shrinking modesty, the vir¬ 
tue of other men, not of its advocate. I heard a per¬ 
son say that he intended to assert himself in life as 
he had not done; and wondering how he intended 
to do it, or whether it could be done, led me to this 
contemplation. No doubt some men are more self- 
assertive than others. Yet how does it benefit them ? 


210 



SELF-ASSER TION. 


211 


Certain it is, that self-assertion without a basis of 
merit will not accomplish much; and the want of a 
true basis will be discovered, no matter how confi¬ 
dent may be the assertion. If there be a firm basis, 
self-assertion is not necessary. Some of the most 
self-assertive men I have known were the most mis¬ 
erable failures; and some of the most self-confident 
the most unfortunate. Perhaps I have already tried 
to describe a type of man whom I have frequently 
met. He has of his own abilities and acquirements 
the most exalted opinion, when dreaming alone. Yet 
as soon as he is called upon to exercise them, fear 
seems to paralyze him. If such a man is a lawyer, in 
private conversation he fears no opponent, yet the 
moment he stands before the court he is dumb, or 
his incoherency shows his troubled spirit. When I 
was a student I knew such a man. On the street he 
had a face of brass, a tongue of iron, yet before the 
court his embarrassment was painful to behold. 
Their confidence seems to desert them when they 
most need it. They have no reserve force. In a 
mental conflict, as on the field of battle, a reserve is 
often necessary to save from a rout. Another pecu¬ 
liarity of these men is that their public defeats and 
failures do not lessen their opinion of themselves. 
That seems to be built on a rock, and the waves of 
defeat do not touch it. The most self-sufficient men 
I have known were the weakest in the conflicts of 
life. They were cowards when the storm came. In 
politics I have seen them hide in terror before a 


212 


THE IDEALIST. 


threat, though it may have been guilt which filled 
them with fear, as well as conscious weakness. But 
as to the other class of which I am writing it is hard 
to understand why their assurance leaves them just 
when they need it. Self-esteem they most certainly 
have to the utmost of self-delusion; and it is not 
until they are brought to some test that they discover 
their deficiencies, and then they do not see them 
clearly, but are overwhelmed by them. Self-asser¬ 
tion is generally loud and unpleasant, and provokes 
resistance. Self-assertion must speak by works, not 
by boasting or assumption. I have seen men liter¬ 
ally swell out their cheeks with the breath of their 
self-importance. Such a manifestation could only 
excite ridicule. A fine personal presence is a great 
aid to self-assertion; but it must have a backing 
of personal power. I have frequently heard the 
expression, “ I consider myself as good as he is." 
Such an assertion generally accompanies inferiority; 
it is the inferior man who thus speaks. For the pur¬ 
poses of life we are weighed in the scales of others ; 
we are not balanced in our own. If we are wise we 
will keep our own scales carefully hid. We may 
take them out when we believe the world to be 
unjust, and weigh ourselves for our own satisfaction 
and comfort; but we must put the result in the deep¬ 
est pocket and keep it there. The ending of my 
contemplation is that my acquaintance cannot assert 
himself to his advantage. That an attempt to do it 
will only make enemies and bring a harvest of con- 


SELF-ASSER TION. 


213 


tempt. Toil is the true lever of self-assertion. That 
will lift us up. An idler sitting at a club window 
may tell romances of his ancestors, and swell in self- 
assertion. Yet when the story is done he is but the 
miserable driveller still. His assertions of self have 
not added one ounce to his true weight. If you de¬ 
sire to assert yourself, work. Proclaiming your im¬ 
portance on the street corners will not give you any. 
There is no such thing as self-assertion. Taking 
your true place in life is not self-assertion, for if you 
are not fitted for it you will not maintain it. The 
useful man has no time for self-assertion. One of 
Napoleon’s marshals is reported to have said that on 
the field of battle he had not time to be afraid. He 
is a failure who needs to assert himself. Have no 
time for self-assertion, and soon you will need none. 


THE MARTYRS OF ERROR. 



E seem to be entering upon an era of Puritan- 


V V ism in its most tyrannical and offensive forms. 
It may be a reaction from the license produced 
by the late civil war, for that war opened the gates 
of an iniquity which poured over the land, almost 
drowning virtue. Indictment has taken the place of 
argument. The policeman and the local magistrate 
sit in judgment upon literature, and one man decides 
what millions shall read. Tyranny is ever encroach¬ 
ing ; intolerance is ever arrogating to itself the right 
to think for others. The narrow forehead seeks to 
dominate over the broad brow. That which this 
spirit condemns the public will read. I write for no 
book; but it is my purpose to judge of what I shall 
read, and not to seek my guide in the decisions of a 
criminal court. I abhor an impure book as the most 
inexcusable form of depravity, produced without 
temptation, save greed and a desire for infamous 
notoriety. It is that which is condemned which is 
> desired, that which is hid which is longed for, and 
that which is denied which is sought for. Freedom 
kills license. A curse of the earth is its self-ap¬ 
pointed censors,—ignorant, snivelling hypocrites. 



THE MARTYRS OF ERROR. 


215 


They excuse their meddlesome natures under the 
plea of care for the youth. The “ young man” has 
been a masked battery for this army of invaders. 
They would control the thought of men, not by 
reason, but by force. Suppression produces revolt, 
and revolt leads to excess. Leave mere error of senti¬ 
ment and opinion free to run their course. Error 
may have its martyrs as well as truth, with the same 
result,—the spread of error. This is the teaching of 
history, has been often noted, and I but repeat what 
others have said. Still the lesson is forgotten. Men 
are not content; they will run where relief is promised. 
They will not adhere to ancient forms if experience 
shows they fail to make men happy. Let men run 
after the new. If they find it too fails, they will re¬ 
turn to the old. One body of men are engaged in 
putting manacles on men, or in riveting them tighter; 
a few are striving to unloose them. So the conflict 
goes on. More chains are the only remedy some 
men know ; unbind him is the relief of others. Hie¬ 
rarchies were contrived to enslave men, and creeds 
to imprison the spirit. Progress has struggled 
against both. 


NATURE WILL NOT BE MOVED. 


M AN has always thought the gifts of fortune 
superior to the gifts of nature. He worships the 
one and slights the other. Yet fortune may change, 
while nature only changes to fade. Fortune may 
increase, nature is irrevocable; she gives no more. 
Therefore are nature’s gifts the higher, though her 
favorites are the most ungrateful. They give her no 
thankfulness for what she has bestowed, but repine 
that fortune did not also come. Perhaps it is be¬ 
cause men may win fortune, and nature cannot be 
wooed. Fortune will listen to invitation; nature 
neither listens nor responds. Fortune is in our hands ; 
nature is beyond us. Fortune may be hoped for; 
but if nature has maimed us we limp through life. 
If we considered that which nature has done for us, 
we would murmur less at fortune’s neglect. The 
strong body, the clear mind, how glorious they are! 
What is a column of figures in a bank-book in com¬ 
parison ? Can money deck as beauty can ? Costly 
raiment is a poor substitute for the clear eye and 
the fair brow. If beauty could be bought, its price 
would be boundless. Nature refuses to enlarge her 
gifts. 


216 



HUMANITY. 


POLICY which appeals to a nation’s selfishness 



Li will be sure to find favor. If it is thought to 
impoverish or injure another nation, its success will 
be greater. Considerations of the rights of all men, 
of the brotherhood of humanity, move not. What 
will we gain ? is the question and answer. Patriotism 
is founded upon selfishness. A river or an imaginary 
line marks the boundaries of opposing patriots. It 
is the virtue of self. If nations had been less selfish 
perhaps they would have lived longer. He is not a 
patriot who looks beyond the bounds of his own 
country. Yet are not other nations men ? Selfish¬ 
ness shrivels the individual, may it not dwarf a 
nation ? Nations wish to sell; but they do not wish 
to buy. It is the miser’s creed,—take and give not. 
If one man sought to be unselfish amid selfishness, 
he would be ruined. The selfishness of one compels 
the selfishness of others. So it is with nations. 
Wider intelligence will bring a more generous spirit. 
We will learn that another’s loss is not of necessity 
our gain; that if I impoverish my neighbor, he im¬ 
poverishes me. The rich cannot continue to grow 
richer, and the poor grow poorer; ruin will finally 
k 19 2I 7 



218 


THE IDEALIST. 


overwhelm both. A religion which appeals to self, 
which makes favorites on earth and in heaven, will 
never lack believers. A man once said to me that 
one of the enjoyments of a rainy day was to sit at 
the window and see others exposed to the storm. 
And with some this spirit gives zest to the antici¬ 
pated heaven. The contemplation of the misery of 
the lost adds to the joy of the saved. I cannot be¬ 
lieve that this is the better spirit. Care for others 
applies equally to nations, to religions, and to social 
life. We are not justified in hating a man because 
he will not believe with us; and another’s misery 
cannot add to our joy. One cheat makes other 
cheats. Men are forced by dishonor to be dishonor¬ 
able if they would attain success. The gain of base¬ 
ness teaches it. We should gain more by adding to 
another’s prosperity than by taking from it. 


ARE LAWYERS NECESSARY? 



RE lawyers necessary? If the community does 


-*■ L not need them, if it would be better without 
them, then they should not exist. No body of men 
should be maintained solely for the benefit of its 
members. It is the return which they make that 
justifies their existence. I shall not repeat that 
which I have already said upon this subject, and 
shall offer but a single thought. Up to this moment 
the service they have rendered the world is be¬ 
yond all estimate. They are the authors of political 
freedom. They conceived and wrote the Constitu¬ 
tion of the United States, the Declaration of Inde¬ 
pendence, and almost every document of freedom in 
the world. When a man’s rights are invaded, be 
they of property or person, to whom does he go ? To 
the lawyer. As a living bulwark of man’s rights 
they have ever stood. No free nation can afford to 
lose this body of men. I believe but for the lawyers 
our free institutions would cease to exist. I never 
knew a lawyer to shrink from fear. Undaunted in 
the defence of their clients they always have been. 
If freedom is good for man, lawyers are necessary to 
maintain it. It is not maintained by craft of priest or 



220 


THE IDE4LIST. 


king, or by the force of armies. It is lawyers who 
have educated the people up to freedom in France, 
in England, in the United States, and in every nation 
where it exists. In trained intellectual power it is 
superior to all other professions and pursuits. It 
attracts the flower of the youth. It is marvellous 
how many of the greatest writers in literature are 
lawyers by profession. I put my answer to this in¬ 
quiry upon this single proposition: they are neces¬ 
sary to freedom. The question is being asked, and 
I thus make my answer. Wherever reason rules in 
the councils of a nation, lawyers lead. Without law¬ 
yers we would not to-day be a free people. The 
profession has its blemishes, its blots and blurs; they 
are spots on its bright escutcheon, and should be 
removed. Greed and imagined necessity lead some 
of its members into crooked paths in order to obtain 
business, still they are but few. Most lawyers prac¬ 
tise their profession with honor. What is the burden 
of every lawyer’s speech before court or jury? It is 
an argument for the right. No doubt in every man’s 
breast there is a sense of natural justice; but it takes 
study to formulate it and fit it for society. 

The objection to all schemes which are the coin¬ 
age of the dreamer’s brain, of all theories which do 
not arise as the grass comes out of the ground from 
natural laws, is that they disregard human nature. 
For them to be effective men must change; the pro¬ 
jector’s ideal man must take the place of the real 
man. Man as he is needs a body of men trained in 


ARE LAWYERS NECESSARY? 


221 


the knowledge of human laws which are the growth 
of experience. If men change, their institutions will 
change with them. It is the man who makes the 
institutions, and not the institutions which make the 
man, though they may keep men in the line. Men 
are led to but a limited extent: the living voice of 
the common impulse is called the leader; but the 
thought preceded him. This impulse for freedom 
lawyers have always responded to. It is true there 
have been judges who were the tools of tyrants, but 
their exceptional character has left them monuments 
of infamy. The history of the struggle for freedom 
would be a darker page but for the work of lawyers. 
The Puritans of New England were governed by 
ecclesiastics; therefore their freedom was only for 
those who thought with them. The Quakers of 
Pennsylvania had no priests, and in no colony were 
the rights of all men respected as in Penn’s colony. 
It is when dogmas are profitable that men become 
persecutors. It is when they minister to ease, lux¬ 
ury, pride, and power that they fire alike the heart 
of him who wears the cowl or the mitre. No crowned 
ecclesiastic has ever been the friend of freedom. I 
read in history of no lawyers who sought to domi¬ 
nate over the consciences of men. When the priest¬ 
hood ruled, Europe had its “ Dark Ages.” When 
the soldier rules, force crushes reason. The govern¬ 
ment of the United States has been practically the 
rule of lawyers. Its statesmen have all been law¬ 
yers. I know of no exception. The people have 

19* 


222 


THE IDEALIST. 


confidence in them. It is soldiers, not lawyers, who 
build thrones. We do not wonder that the first 
Napoleon hated lawyers. I am not disparaging other 
men in the work of human progress, or seeking to 
glorify lawyers at the expense of other apostles of 
the rights of man. It is only as to their efforts in 
the cause of the equal rights of all men of which I 
write. And it is as the army of freedom whose 
manual is reason that I advocate their continued ex¬ 
istence. While advocating the rights of the weak 
against the strong, they still are conservative, their 
studies make them so. Absurd theories which would 
destroy all individuality and take hope out of the 
heart of man and leave him no motive for exertion, 
do find much favor among them. In the writer’s 
opinion every man must be allowed to obtain his 
own place in the social system. Aid injures and 
often destroys. In looking back over his career the 
less the hands of others have been felt the greater 
the satisfaction. No man willingly accepts the place 
of dependence. The more distinct and separate the 
individual the loftier the man. Manhood is reached 
apart, in segregation, not in aggregation. 


DOES FAME GAIN BY FICTION? 


D OES fame gain by fiction ? Falsehood can add 
nothing, for if that which is written or spoken 
of the man is not true, it is not the man who is 
praised, it is but the name, for falsehood cannot 
praise. To say that a man is six feet high when he 
is but five does not commend his height. You have 
given stature to the name, not the man. Most “ im¬ 
mortal names” are but fictions; like the gods of the 
Pagans they may have begun as men, but successive 
fictions have made them gods. The man has been 
forgotten in the god. I have lived long enough to 
see the work of fiction begun, and to see the man 
dissolving in the imaginary being. We must have 
idols to worship, and they must be the “ work of 
our own hands.” Every year they get farther from 
mortality, and approach nearer the immortals. This 
is not the fame of the man: it is the fame of the 
name. If he was deformed, a statue of beauty would 
not represent him and would not make him im¬ 
mortal in loveliness. The name is handed to pos¬ 
terity, not the man. Fame can no more be made 
by falsehood than a man can be made from marble. 

No man feels satisfied when some action is attributed 

223 



224 


THE IDEALIST. 


to him, when he knows it was the work of another. 
We cannot glory in falsehood. It is not the fame 
of the man to become a myth. Gods are often 
made of dead men to humiliate living men. The 
days of dead men are prayed for to sting the living 
by contrast. It is to show them how little they are. 
The dead are magnified to lessen the living. The 
ghosts of the dead are made to walk that the living 
may crawl. Thus hatred as well as love helps to 
make men immortal. She is not true who paints 
her face; he is not true who would have flattery 
paint his character. The writer who steals commits 
an act of folly; the praise wounds him, and he feels 
lessened by it. Neither the living or the dead gain 
by praise founded upon misrepresentation. To the 
dead it is obliteration; it erases the orignal, and 
brings forward a substitute. The bravery of the 
substitute will not crown the man whose place he 
took. No true man wishes to stand when living, or 
have his name remembered when he is dead, by 
virtues not his own. He is as adverse to having 
good actions falsely attributed to him as to have evil 
deeds not his own blacken his name. He does not 
wish words of wisdom put in his mouth. He has a 
little soul who will wear another man’s robe; who 
will find pleasure in having another man’s work at¬ 
tributed to him. Fame of manhood speaks in truth, 
and as each falsehood is told, she adds to the ob¬ 
scurity of the man, and hangs the falsehood on the 
name he bore. 


OF LISTENERS. 


T HE words we speak carelessly, without appar¬ 
ent thought, often make more impression than 
those which we deem the result of noted experience 
and careful thought. They may be of the best wis¬ 
dom within us, the result of an experience and ob¬ 
servation so complete that the sentiment has crystal¬ 
lized itself in our minds, that we have forgotten the 
experiences and the reasoning upon them. Another 
principle of action less pointedly true makes more 
impression upon us, because we have labored upon 
it. We do not know the impress our words are 
making; the careless utterance may sink deep, and 
the studied thought pass unregarded. On different 
occasions have I had my words repeated to me, 
which without note I have spoken. They were 
opinions which I had formed, which had become so 
familiar to me that I spoke them as I would speak 
of the weather. The other day a friend of mine, a 
man of learning, repeated to me something I had 
said, which he commended for its “ worldly wisdom.” 
I will repeat it that the reader may judge of its wis¬ 
dom. Perhaps his experience and sentiments may 
join mine. I said that few things in social life an- 
P 225 



226 


THE IDEALIST 


gered me more than for a third person to listen to a 
conversation not addressed to him ; that if I was 
talking and observed that a third person was listen¬ 
ing, I instantly stopped my conversation and en¬ 
deavored to show the listener that I ceased because 
he was listening; that when I lowered my voice 
and found him stretching forward to catch that 
which I was saying, then would come the sudden 
stop and the show of anger. I thought this but a 
matter of feeling, an annoyance at the want of 
breeding in the listener. But after my friend’s com¬ 
mendation of it, I commenced to think of the reasons 
which led me to it. And I saw that the listener lis¬ 
tened as a critic, a spy, perhaps as an enemy; that 
he would repeat my words to my injury. I felt 
instinctively that he was an enemy, a new-born one 
perhaps, but still an enemy. The mild reader will 
say, it was but curiosity; yet curiosity will readily 
become malignity. He who seeks to find out the 
opinions of a man who is reticent about them does 
it from an evil motive. He means to use them to 
work harm to him who spoke them. He is curious 
because he is malicious. The generous man concerns 
himself not as to the opinions of others. I have 
seen in the manner of the man to whom I was talk¬ 
ing that he was listening with malice; then I in¬ 
stantly became as dry as the bed of a mountain 
stream when the heat of summer beats upon it. 
When you see that a man is trying to uncover the 
soul, then let the soul hide itself. Give your opin- 


OF LISTENERS. 


227 


ions: do not let them be drawn from you. Do not 
allow yourself to be unwound; keep the end of the 
cord in your own hands. I have not remarked of 
the breach of courtesy of him who listens to a con¬ 
versation in which he is not concerned; that might 
be forgiven as the result of ignorance; that com¬ 
ment would lie upon the surface. I go beneath that, 
to the motive. If it was but thoughtless curiosity it 
would have nothing in it but annoyance. The man 
with whom you talk must listen in sympathy and 
interest and not in criticism; else is conversation a 
burden. I will not willingly talk with any one if 
I must be on guard. The life of conversation is 
freedom,—an exchange of unrestrained, unguarded 
thought; restraint makes it a lifeless thing. 


RESPECTABILITY. 


APPINESS carries no greater burden than 



-L A self-pampered, petted, caressed respectability. 
That respectability which requires constant care and 
watching, which must always be consulted, which 
will be lost if a constant eye is not kept upon it, 
which like unto a “ body of death” is chained to the 
victim, which is the master and not the servant, 
which like a spectre haunts its victim, is life’s weari¬ 
ness. No man so miserable as the supremely self-con¬ 
scious, respectable man. He is miserable, because he 
consults not his happiness, but always asks leave of an 
imaginary propriety. It is the outward show he re¬ 
gards. The land of Bohemia is a brighter land than 
that land of conventionality where words and actions 
are weighed, not by their intrinsic character, but by 
the query, What will people say ? The children of 
Bohemia are far more lovely, for conventional pro¬ 
priety and ugliness generally link arms. The want 
of charms often makes this painful propriety. There 
is a joyless, sunless respectability which mistakes 
stupidity for decorum. Appearances are seldom to 
be consulted if we would get what of good there is 
in the world. See to it that the word or act is right 



RESPECTABILITY. 


229 


in itself, and then appearances need not trouble. If 
you first ask the world what you shall have, you will 
get but little. If you study respectability, you will 
find but little happiness or content. Men may live 
for respectability and not be respectable. Men may 
utterly disregard it, and yet be respected. There is 
a strength in the man who walks his own way, who 
does not ask which road he shall take, that compels 
admiration. I have always had a horror of uniforms. 
A uniform is slavery; it is a sign of shackles; no 
matter whether it represents a profession of religion 
or of trade, it is a badge of bondage. The man who 
wears it is a bondman. It shows that he has a mas¬ 
ter. It is the modern thought to destroy the indi¬ 
vidual and make him but part of a great system. 
The men who fought and conquered in the American 
Revolution were not such men; they were individu¬ 
als, and when they fired at Bunker Hill they took 
aim. Each soldier was a man. Combination builds 
greater industrial works. It rears loftier buildings; 
but it buries the man. Beneath its shadows I fear 
genius will die, save as it ministers to material pros¬ 
perity. The scream of the steam-engine frightens 
poetry out of life, and the man who is chained to 
it is not the happier man for its invention. Speed 
is not happiness, and noise is not joy. Happiness 
dwells not in the shadows of great buildings ; they 
exclude the sun, the source of life. If greed is not 
checked by law, the streets of our cities will become 
caverns, and our buildings towers of Babel. 


CONTENT WITH OURSELVES. 


ATURE is kind in giving us so good an opin- 



^ ion of ourselves. No matter what blemishes 
she gives, we would not exchange them for another’s 
beauties. We love ourselves. Do those books benefit 
us which tear aside the veil that hides our deform¬ 
ities, which show us our selfishness in all its hideous¬ 
ness, that shock our self-love, that reveal the base¬ 
ness concealed under noble names? If they could 
cure this illness of selfishness, if they had in them 
surgery to remove these deformities, if we could 
change these terrible truths and make them slanders, 
if they could make the action agree with its name, 
then would such dreadful revelations be of use. Is 
it not best to be deceived ? The tree of knowledge 
shuts the gates of Eden, and has ever since brought 
sorrow. Does it not show us how naked we are, 
and yet does not tell us where we shall find clothing ? 
Still we will know if we can, we will search the hid¬ 
den depths, though every step of knowledge adds a 
new misery. We would know the full extent of our 
degradation. We cannot denude ourselves of this 
corroding selfishness: it would be like drawing the 
blood from our veins. We would die. We would 


230 



CONTENT WITH OURSELVES. 


231 


be eaten up by our fellows. See the crowds of 
young girls which in every civilized community are 
yearly fed to the demon of appetite. We rage against 
the Mormons, and have in our midst a far greater 
evil than their “ sealed wives.” The very senator 
who votes for a bill to confiscate their church’s prop¬ 
erty, may lead a more impure life than the Mormon 
elder. The one marries his victim and supports her 
in her old age; the other does not marry her, and 
abandons her when weary of her. The reign of 
hypocrisy is triumphant. We love to believe we are 
well-favored and noble. The happiness which is 
found around the convivial board, how shallow it is! 
I read in the morning paper the fulsome flattery of 
such a gathering; of how they called each other 
by great names, while jealousy was flapping her bat¬ 
like wings over the whole assembly. No man be¬ 
lieved what he said. Had they given their true 
opinions of each other, the very wine would have 
“ mocked them.” The patriot would appear as an 
office-seeking politician, the orator as reciting an oft- 
repeated lesson conned by rote, the wit as repeating 
jokes older than the century plant: all self-seeking 
men, applauding to be applauded, and the whole 
banquet as hollow as the glasses they emptied. 
Knowledge carries a scourge to punish those who 
would embrace her, yet man thinks her so beautiful 
he will ever seek her. To me the most terrible form 
of selfishness, that which pains me most to see, is 
the envy which lurks in the counsel and wishes of 


232 


THE IDEALIST. 


friends, which is the leaven that pervades the denun¬ 
ciation of wrong, which deceives him whose breast 
it fills, which gives the bitterness to counsellor and 
preacher, that both mistake, the one in his advice, 
the other in his condemnation. If each would search 
deep enough he would find envy or wounded self- 
love at the bottom of much of his hatred of wrong. 
So intense, so blinding is this self-love, that it poisons 
social life. Jealousy is aroused if the husband or 
wife is addressed with friendliness and kindness, evil 
motives are suspected, or if to allay that spirit formal¬ 
ity and coldness are assumed, then anger takes the 
place of jealousy, based upon a supposed want of 
respect. No matter what course is pursued, dis¬ 
satisfaction is the result. The Oriental, so far as the 
wife was concerned, allowed his selfishness to have 
full sway, and put her in a cage. This was the 
legitimate end of the sway of self. The monogamist 
suffers the same rage, but dare not apply the same 
remedy. Sometimes he substitutes the knife or the 
pistol. The spirit is the same. The advance from 
the custom of the Orient is not as far as the delusion 
of self-adulation would fain believe. Customs may 
vary, laws may differ, forms of worship may appear 
to have a “ great gulf between” them, yet the nature 
of man remains unchanged. As creation made him, 
so will he remain. Education, as we term it, may 
gloss him, but it is only a surface polish. I suppose 
such as he is makes him fit for his place in the vast 
works of nature. If he was otherwise he would not 


CONTENT WITH OURSELVES. 233 

fill the vacuum left for him. The difference between 
the intellects of the savage and the savant is not as 
great as appearances indicate. A very learned man,— 
as we use the expression,—who had been a mission¬ 
ary among the Arabs, told me that they would say 
to him, Your religion suits you and is good for you; 
our faith is best for us. The Mohammedan was 
more liberal than the proselyter. He desired no con¬ 
verts : he but wished to hold the faith of his fathers 
undisturbed. 


20* 


THE TRUE CAUSE. 


“/CORRUPTION” is the vice and the weakness 
V-/ of the party in power. It is denounced by 
the party out of office, whose honesty is simply want 
of opportunity. It truly represents the sentiment of 
the people. The “ politician,” no matter how cor¬ 
rupt he may be, has the very spirit of the community. 
When the public is honest in soul, then will the 
“ politician” be true to that honesty. He is the ex¬ 
ponent of the spirit which is abroad. It is idle to 
denounce individuals. As well might a man be re¬ 
proached for the leprosy, if he was surrounded by 
lepers. He has but succumbed to the contagion. 
Let the air be pure and all men will breathe it. In 
all ages and in every community a few men remain 
untouched, however universal the plague; as break¬ 
waters they maintain a refuge for honesty. All 
forms of government have been corrupt, and man’s 
nature must be changed when they become pure 
The ballot will not cure, it but changes the hands. 
It is the worship of materialism, of brick and stone 
and iron. If a spacious dwelling is better than clean 
hands, bonds and stocks more valuable than a pure 
name, then will they be sought at the expense of 
234 



THE TRUE CAUSE. 


235 


cleanliness and purity. It is useless to rave about 
it. Men will prefer material good to ideal good; 
will prefer banquets of the good of earth to heavenly 
banquets. The few who do not are passed by with 
contempt as “ cranks.” The true cause comes from 
the people, and does not lie in the individual. Let 
the community get right, and the “ politician” will 
do well. 


BUILDING MONUMENTS. 



E all desire monuments; though dead we wish 


to live, to survive in the memories of men. 


The promise of angel forms does not content us : we 
wish to live as men. We have known ourselves as 
men, and in the form of man alone can immortality 
satisfy us. Our identity must live in the imagination 
of other men. We cannot let it die; from this feeling 
comes the teaching of the resurrection of the body. 
It may be purified, but still it is our body that we 
cannot let go. The final resurrection is too far off 
to satisfy our longings; we would leave our individ¬ 
uality impressed upon mankind. The simplest form 
in which this wish is expressed is the plain tomb¬ 
stone, then upward to the costly mausoleum and the 
lofty monument. These are the barbarous types of 
immortality coming down from the heap of stones 
which were cast in memory. Memory in stone, 
whether in heaps as nature carved them or chiselled 
by the hand of man, is unworthy of the age of type. 
Are the projectors of these emblems of vanity afraid 
that their “ hero” will be forgotten ? If nothing but 
stone can keep his memory, then let it perish, and 
build houses for the living; not to hold fleeting 


236 



BUILDING MONUMENTS. 


23 7 


shadows which will not stay in them, but for breath¬ 
ing humanity. Buildings for the living are better, 
though the purpose be a monument. Clay, lime, and 
sand can be sanctified by the object. We can forgive 
the self which tinctures the cloth of the garments 
which are to warm those chilled by poverty. The 
writer deceives himself with the belief that he toils 
only for others. But the hope that he too is build¬ 
ing a monument which will outlast his bones under¬ 
lies his work. We are all building monuments. 
Though frail, they please us. Each builds accord¬ 
ing to his capacity, according to his strength. This 
desire is universal, and when not manifested it is for 
want of power. The fashion of the times has reared 
another golden idol for men to worship. It is 
“ charity” gilded. If the monument is to display 
gold, then it will tarnish though it be gold. If its 
spirit is humanity, it will live when the clay, sand, 
and lime again become dust. Shape the thought 
and you have all that is immortal of the man. A 
perpetuated name plastered on walls is not immor¬ 
tality. There is no immortality for man in stone. 
A name carved on it is but a footprint. 


RESUME. 


I WRITE for no creed or party. I belong to no 
social or literary coterie; to no society for 
mutual flattery. I have no guild. I am enlisted 
under no man’s banner. I follow no leader, and ad¬ 
vocate no dogma or the cause of any association of 
men, political or religious. I stand alone, striving 
to make truth my guide. Standing alone has its 
gain and its loss. Its gain is freedom, its loss is in 
support. Yet this discourages me not. While I 
think I shall write. Writers have held a place in 
literature simply because they praised each other. 
Alone they would have been forgotten. I cannot 
praise that which I despise. I cannot advocate that 
in which I do not believe. I will not repeat fables, 
though they may be popular. I may be silent, but 
if I speak, I will speak only as I am convinced. 
I utterly, wholly, and absolutely reject authority. 
There exists no authority over the mind; it is usur¬ 
pation. Are you wiser, then, than all men ? I an¬ 
swer, I cannot find truth by weighing advocates. I 
weigh the proposition, not the reasons. It is not 
the man who can call the word truth in the greatest 
number of tongues who best comprehends it. We 

learn it by self-introspection, not by multiplying 
238 



r£sum£. 


239 


words which have the same meaning. I need not 
wait for my reader to tell me that a coldness per¬ 
vades that which I have written. Coldness pre¬ 
serves ; heat while it gives life brings decay. Calm¬ 
ness may sink to coldness, but passion leads to 
exaggeration. Men of the coldest and most selfish 
natures prate most of their love for humanity. When 
but words are given, the lexicon of self furnishes 
those which are soft and loving as readily as the 
true. A very thin mask will deceive the world; and 
it will persecute the man who says it is but a mask. 
I seek no martyr’s crown. I court no persecution, 
moral or social; the only persecution our laws allow, 
but a persecution as deadly as that represented by 
the fagot and the stake. We think we are free, yet 
there are but few countries in the world where 
thought is suppressed as with us. We dare not 
think aloud, unless we think with the prevailing 
opinion. Many a man carries opinions in his breast 
he dare not reveal. They may be but opinions, 
touching not the life of the man, yet to utter them 
is to be shunned. Possibly they are gross errors; 
but a man is not to be condemned for mere error of 
thought, yet this is reckoned the greatest sin. We 
forgive much to the man who thinks with us, in 
church creeds and party resolutions. We are so 
bigoted, so self-sufficient, so intolerant, that the first 
impulse is to persecute the man who differs from us. 
We will turn on him as though he had done us a 
personal injury, simply because he will not accept 


240 


THE IDEALIST. 


our thought as truth. Not many years ago this 
whole nation said that God had doomed the black 
man to be the slave of the white man; that one 
drop of the black man’s blood was sufficient to put 
him through whose veins it flowed on the auction¬ 
eer’s block, a chattel. Who dares utter such a sen¬ 
timent now? This remembrance should humble 
intolerance and check the fierce assertion of confi¬ 
dent opinion. No matter how sure we are, we may 
be wrong; no matter upon what rock we plant our 
feet, it may crumble and leave us standing on shifting 
sand. “ That which has been will be.” “ We have 
no abiding place,” no sure ground. We must not be 
certain we have found the truth, but continue our 
search, with our ears always open to reason. There 
are those who would stop them, and then lead us; 
foes to advancement, they look only to their own 
power and gain. We must “ run the race which is 
set before us” without encumbrance. We forget the 
principle to abuse the man who maintains it. It is 
easier to denounce than reason. If a man teaches 
error, why should we be afraid of him ? Do we fear 
that error is stronger than truth ? If that which we 
call truth is too weak to contend with that which we 
have denominated error, then it is not truth. I re¬ 
peat, we are an intolerant people. We are so self- 
confident that we will not listen. It takes a revolu¬ 
tion to open our ears. Our country has within it 
such unbounded riches that we must prosper. Mis¬ 
takes cannot prevent it. 


PRODUCE GREEN LEAVES. 


H OWEVER aged the tree may be, it is better 
that it should put forth some green leaves 
than to be a withered trunk upon whom nothing but 
moss will grow. It is a man’s own fault if he be 
moss-covered instead of the bearer of green leaves. 
We wither from indolence; and the heart-fountains, 
which would give reproducing waters, dry up from 
selfishness. While we are in the world we should 
be of it,—alive to its toil and its sorrows. If we can 
keep romance in the heart it will be a heat warmer 
than gold’s glitter. We may find it prudent to hide 
it, and it may dwell chiefly in memory, yet should it 
be cherished. Full life shrinks from the withered 
life. It has no fellowship with death or its sem¬ 
blance. 


L q 


21 


24I 



PLEASURE SEEKERS. 


LEASURE seekers” are spoken of as criminals, 



JL yet why should we not always seek it; seek 
it until the end comes? Pain and sorrow come 
without seeking, then why should we not seek for 
that which gives us joy? That which gives us 
pleasure is right. There is no pleasure in wrong; 
the sting poisons it. There are those who would 
take from life every green thing and make it as bare 
as a winter-stripped forest. Cursed with the gift of 
credulity they believe, as they are taught, that in 
every joy there lurks a sin. And credulity (the 
power of believing) is as much a gift of nature as the 
writer’s inspiration. They who have this gift furnish 
the food for the impostor in religion and the apostle 
in superstition. They are the slaves whom cunning 
has bound in all ages; and by their numbers have 
compelled the silent acquiescence of those who were 
not deceived. 


242 



SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 


S ELF-CONFIDENCE is often subdued by self- 
consciousness. He has the utmost belief in 
himself, yet the ever-present consciousness of self 
overshadows the confidence; it checks it. I have 
found that some of the most timid men have the 
most exalted opinion of themselves; while those 
who are ever ready to speak and act had a truer and 
more moderate estimate of their own abilities. The 
difference was, the one was always thinking of him¬ 
self, the other was not. Fear that he would not 
come up to the estimate of himself kept the one 
silent and immovable, while the other, thinking only 
of his speech and act, was not restrained by fear of 
failure. As I walk the streets I can see self-con¬ 
sciousness written in the face; and it is a most 
unpleasant writing. The less self intrudes the more 
agreeable we are. We should note the passer-by, 
and not consider how he is noting us or how we are 
impressing him. Effort is as unpleasant to the be¬ 
holder as painful to him who makes it. Biting the 
lips, twisting the mouth indicate self-consciousness. 
If we must think of ourselves we should remain 

alone to do it: we should contemplate self until 

243 



244 


THE IDEALIST. 


we have had enough of self-admiration before we 
appear among others, for then it is our duty to cease 
self-contemplation.* If we do not, we are hateful 
and will be shunned. This is the secret of pleas¬ 
ing,—forgetfulness of self. It is amusing, as well as 
distasteful, to see the ingenuity with which every 
topic of conversation is made to reflect self, among 
these self-worshippers. Self-consciousness produces 
timidity. The bold think of the undertaking; self- 
consciousness does not burden them. No greater 
load to carry than a self which is ever seen and felt; 
no greater hinderance. 


THE TRUE PURPOSE OF LAW. 


A NATION’S growth cannot be forced by law. 

Law produces nothing. Its true purpose is to 
insure freedom. It cannot build up an industry or 
create prosperity for a people. It is the brain and 
hand of the citizen which produces the wealth of the 
community. The law weaves nothing, plants noth¬ 
ing. Its only duty is to protect the weaver and the 
planter that they may not be plundered of the fruits 
of their industry. A people who are ever looking 
for law to build up their industries will have none. 
The fewer the laws the more prosperous the people. 
This is but repeating, in another form of words, the 
truest maxim of government: “ That nation is best 
governed which is governed the least.” I have said 
that law cannot make any people moral. The peo¬ 
ple will corrupt the law, but the law cannot amend 
the people. Morals cannot be learned out of the 
statute-book; and judges and juries cannot teach 
them. The offence has been committed before their 
functions begin. 


21 * 


245 



“THE TEACHING OF DEVELOPMENT.” 


HE teaching that man has been “ developed” 



■L can bring no comfort to the human spirit. If 
inexorable law is the supreme power, there is no 
deity for humanity. This law is not a care-taking 
father; it is a force, moving and moulding us. A 
law is not a god, it is a power. The tenderness, the 
confidence, the support of that faith which cherishes 
the belief that the supreme Father takes cognizance 
of the individual, this law sweeps away. There 
is no place left for emotion, and without emotion 
religion ceases,—a religion of reason cannot exist. 
The more intellectual a worship the colder it is. 
The regions of the intellect are frozen regions. Wis¬ 
dom brings silence; it is the ignorant who chatter. 
Have we developed ? Are we wiser than some men 
of the Hebrew people, than Greek and Roman ? We 
are not. Their laws are still our laws, and we imi¬ 
tate their art and copy their writings. Their thought 
is our thought. Men have lived with whom this 
vaunted century has produced no comparable man. 
The forces of nature render us greater tribute, and 
apparently for man’s greater comfort. This is be¬ 
cause the hand and brain are freer and the reward 


246 



“THE TEACHING OF DEVELOPMENT." 

surer. The less the competent toiler is compelled 
to divide with the idler or the incompetent, the bet¬ 
ter he toils; and any system which seeks to force 
men to equality, to provide for all alike, would send 
men back to barbarism. If nature has given one 
man a better brain or a stronger arm, he must gain 
by it, or he will not use it. Any system which does 
not recognize the self in man must fail. No growth 
in material wealth or morals can be forced by law. 
Laws may and do enable one man to plunder an¬ 
other, but their tendency is to destroy. Millionaires 
are mostly the product of evil legislation. 


THE BREATH WHICH TAINTS. 



HE praise of the world vulgarizes its object. 


JL Its common breath taints, it impures it. 
Where the world is pouring out its loud laudations 
the sensitive spirit has no admiration. The breath 
taints as surely as the touch. Purity demands pri¬ 
vacy. The song heard by thousands loses its charm 
in their acclamations. The delicate spirit cannot 
follow the crowd in its plaudits; it draws back and 
lets the multitude pass by. The thronged room 
withers the flower which bloomed fresh in the free 
air of the hill-side. 


248 





BUT PAINTED CARDS. 


W HEN a public official makes an appointment 
which is not justified by fitness or compe¬ 
tency, he shows that his professions of piety, virtue, 
and patriotism are but cards in his hands with which 
he plays his game of life. He uses them, not be¬ 
cause he values them as of intrinsic worth, but because 
they are winners in the game. His apology of press¬ 
ure or expediency is none. His professions should 
lift him above such influences. That they do not, 
proves that they have no value to him save as painted 
cards. 


249 



DO WRITINGS CONVEY THE POWER 
OF THE WRITER? 


I T is said of many authors, as it has often been re¬ 
peated of Robert Burns and of Charles Lamb, that 
their writings do not adequately convey the power 
and wit of the man; that these were shown with 
far greater weight and brilliancy in their conversa¬ 
tion. May not this be error ? The profound remark, 
or the bright and witty saying, was set off by sur¬ 
rounding circumstances. The hearing of the listen¬ 
ers was sharpened by the excitement of the moment, 
by participation in the debate which brought them 
forth. All these made them show better than if re¬ 
duced to printed form. The same sentence read by 
the calm reader would not shine with the brightness, 
nor would it reflect the power when written as when 
spoken. Then there was the eye, the voice to give 
depth and lend charm. Besides, we have the report 
of a friend, and not of the passionless critic. Set 
speeches are mostly vapid, diffuse things. I imagine 
but few people read speeches unless during the ex¬ 
citement of the time in which they were spoken. 
No literature—if printed speeches are worthy of the 

name—so soon moulds and rusts. 

250 



HUMAN BLOOD IS SACRED. 


H UMAN blood must be held as sacred if man is 
to rise to majesty. The progress of no cause 
is an excuse for shedding it. When spilled it brings 
corruption to nations and religions, and the long 
purification of time is required to counteract its 
effects. Men must not be counted as so much power, 
as the force of a steam-engine is gauged. 


251 



THE GLOOMY MONODY. 


O what good end is this unceasing monody 



JL of the alleged vanity of human life and the 
transient character of man’s happiness ? Gloomy 
and malignant spirits are afraid we will forget and 
will not be sufficiently miserable. There may be a 
“ spider in the bottom of the cup,” yet we may drink 
of the cup and not suffer death. It may be the only 
one we have to drink, and without it we perish of 
thirst. The note of gloom is sounded, not to warn, 
but to blight and wither; it is the shadow of the 
temperament or the malignancy of the heart which 
prompts it. “ We must die.” Yes, “ it is the debt 
due to that nature” which brought us into being. 
We did not ask for life; we cannot avoid death. 
Neither is of our choice. We no more need to be 
reminded of the one, which will be, than of the other, 
which has been. Certainly we will be forgotten, and 
why should we not be ? We have forgotten those who 
were before us. Our places will be taken by others, 
and why not ? Have we not taken the places of those 
who lived before us ? Are we to be the exceptions to 
the movements of the natural laws ? Our rebellion 
will but make us miserable, and solemn chants and 



THE GLOOMY MONODY. 


253 


mournful dirges will not alter the facts. The more 
healthy the nature, the less it broods over death. 
It has life and thinks of life and seeks the good of 
life. I abhor the literature of death; it is the pro¬ 
duction of disease or cunning. This world is not 
the “ wilderness of woe” it has been painted; and I 
have noticed that those who most loudly proclaim 
that sentiment most earnestly seek portions of the 
earth they decry. Cease mourning over the inevi¬ 
table, and do not drag a “ body of death” raised by 
fear. Cease weaving the web of despair. 


22 


ATTRACTIVE INDIVIDUALITY. 


TTRACTIVE individuality does not feel the 



Li need of place or of ancestors to give it 
consideration. It conquers in itself. The man or 
woman who commands personal admiration has no 
need to dig in the graves of the dead for ornaments: 
their living charms are more potent than dust. 


254 



MAN’S BELIEF AS TO THE LOVE 
SHOWN ANOTHER. 


I T seems impossible for one man to believe that a 
woman loves another man for that man’s self. 
It is his money, his position in life, something apart 
from himself, which she loves. He has no difficulty 
in believing that he is loved for himself alone, but 
his self-admiration will not permit him to think this 
true of any other man. Thus the lover of most 
novels and poems is the author himself, as he sees 
himself and decks himself. He cannot place an¬ 
other man, even in the imagination, in the place of 
adoration. This accounts for the monotony of the 
song and story, as repeated under new names by the 
same author. So when death suddenly calls, we see 
in the life of him to whom the summons has come a 
reason for the quick call which is not our own. We 
cannot be thus quickly called. I have noted the 
reasons given for death, when there was an apparent 
mental reservation that none of them applied to the 
speaker. So strong is the delusion of self-love. 


255 



SARCASTIC SPEECH. 


T HE man of sarcastic speech is the man who 
clearly sees the weakness and folly of his 
fellow-men, and points them out. If truth does not 
point the shaft, it is merely folly, and falls harmless. 
It is truth alone which gives it force, and which 
wounds. Bitterness without truth harms not. 


256 



DIGNITY TO MONEY. 


T HE man who has nothing but money to vaunt 
himself upon must have millions. Millions 
only can give dignity to money. A man, old in 
years, once said to me, “ I have not lived in vain. I 
have one hundred thousand dollars.” If that repre¬ 
sented his life’s toil, if he could point to no other 
work, he had lived to but little purpose. The differ¬ 
ence between a man and a money-bag is, when the 
man dies, his power to do further service dies with 
him save as his “ work lives after him,” but the 
power of the money-bag, which is a thing apart 
from the man, lives on, more useful perhaps than 
when controlled by its former owner. One is spirit, 
the other material, and as far as spirit is beyond 
material so far is the man above money. Dignity is 
stupidity’s favorite cloak, and silence its sure cover. 
Dignity is the cheapest of all mannerisms. The 
ever-present self creates and maintains it. 


r 


22* 


257 



ENVY. 


NE of the most unpleasant things which greets 



a man who has passed the contemporaries of 
his early life is the manifested envy of those of them 
who have stood still. They find reproach to them¬ 
selves in his success. The taunt of early poverty 
gives envy its favorite food. The bitterest ingredi¬ 
ent in the cup of human misery envy drops there. 
The stately mansion is pointed out, and the only 
comment is of the former poverty of the owner, or 
the humble character of his early occupation. Not 
a word is heard of the toil and thrift which raised 
him from that poverty and that lowly calling. Envy 
will not permit it. It is this envy which every suc¬ 
cessful man feels surrounds him more than any other 
cause which hardens him. For his own peace he 
becomes iron. Let not man’s voice move you ; this 
experience whispers to his soul. He is a copyist. 
Thus miserable envy speaks of the writer,—From 
whence, from where, from whom ? But it cannot 
answer save to repeat the charge. 


258 





PERSONAL CHARMS AND SENSE. 


WOMAN without sense or beauty is a weari- 



ness. Beauty may make silliness endurable, 
and good sense may supply the lack of personal 
charms, or cause the want of them to be forgotten. 
When beauty leaves, good sense should be ready to 
fill its place. Sense and beauty seldom unite. The 
homage of man leaves beauty but scant opportunity 
to join hands with good sense. A “ convention” of 
female intellect is a “ convention” of female unloveli¬ 
ness. They decry the power and value of personal 
charms who have them not. Man need not fear 
woman’s intellect. Her power is in her personal fas¬ 
cination. Female loveliness triumphs over his in¬ 
tellect; but female intellect will be defeated in the 
conflict. Her personal charms are her power, and 
she attempts no other, save when these are denied 
her, or when time has taken them. She invades man’s 
dominions when her own heritage has been lost. 


259 



VIRTUE AND SUCCESS. 


NEWSPAPER asked certain lawyers to tell of 



-Cjl the road to “ success.” Some who answered 
had not themselves found that road, though this fact 
may not have rendered their opinions less valuable. 
They answered, giving the usual formula of the 
cardinal virtues as they have been laid down time 
out of mind as conditions of success in all pursuits. 
The inquirer did not say what was meant by success ; 
but I assume that obtaining a large practice was the 
test, and such seems to have been the understanding 
of those who answered. If all men who have suc¬ 
ceeded possessed these attainments, the question 
would be concluded ; but they do not. Men have 
obtained a large practice, with but a scant measure 
of these attributes. If success, interpreted as gains, 
is the lawyer’s only object, he will not concern him¬ 
self about them. To possess them he must cherish 
true manhood as the evidence of the highest success. 
Every virtue should be inculcated; but success 
should not be promised as a reward. Persistent 
energy, with a fixed purpose that is not over-scrupu¬ 
lous, is the one which wins the material victory. But 
virtue numbers not these upon her list. 



TO WHOM IS OUR YOUTH GIVEN? 


Y OUTH and its charms are given to time, not to 
an individual. The complaint, I gave my youth, 
and a debt is owing me for the gift, is not based on 
truth. Your youth would have left you though you 
had never seen the person to whom you say you 
gave it. It was a gift to time, though not a free one. 
Then do not utter reproaches for its loss as though 
you gave it to the undeserving, or as though you 
had been robbed of it. You could not keep it. In 
your anger, in your bitterness for its loss, you can 
only reproach time, and time will but deepen his 
marks in return for your bitterness. To those who 
receive him gently he does the least harm. When 
we are young we do not see the power and the op¬ 
portunity of youth. It is only when it is gone that 
we see the full measure of its capacity. The knowl¬ 
edge of age and the strength of youth cannot be 
joined,—both are wasted, the one in unavailing re¬ 
grets, the other in vain hopes. The one lives in the 
past, the other in the future, neither in the present. 
We know not how to live in the present. The old 
are unfit to write of love, not because they write of 

the dead, but because they write of phantoms. They 

261 



262 


THE IDEALIST. 


rake among the ashes only to find bitterness and 
disappointment. Time has torn away the delusions 
which love demands. Some of the most beautiful 
love-songs have been written of the dead; but the 
love was not dead, so that it is not the “ shadow of 
death” which forbids the old to write of love. Death 
makes love immortal; age has seen its mortality. 


THAT WHICH I WOULD NOT TEACH A 

DAUGHTER. 


I WOULD not teach a daughter that her mission 
on earth is to minister to some “ good man." 
She might not find that “ good man.” Most likely 
she would not. Men who believe that the stars were 
set in the heavens to give them light by night; that 
the coal was put in the mountains to warm their 
bodies; that animal life has a right to exist only as 
it ministers unto them: of these she would find an 
abundance. And if this “ good man” lives, and she 
found him, I would still teach her that he is not 
worthy the sacrifice; that much of the “ goodness” 
of man is the cant of selfishness. I would teach her 
that her first and main duty is to herself, and not to 
man. That it is not her duty to sink herself into the 
wife or mother, and in her absorption live only for 
them. That she has the right to her own individu¬ 
ality. That it is the selfishness of man which has 
taught this utter self-sacrifice, this living only in and 
for him. I respect the Catholic Church in that it has 
given the Virgin the highest place. I believe that 
woman is waking up to the fact that she is a person, 

not an adjunct. And with this awakening will come 

263 



264 


THE IDEALIST. 


a candor of word and action which has been hitherto 
unknown to her. Deception grows in slavery. It is 
they who fear that deceive. Self-sacrifice is the one 
growth which does not bring forth its kind. Its 
fruit is unlike itself. Self-abnegation produces self¬ 
ishness. Self-forgetfulness teaches absorbing self- 
love. Would we then have no self-sacrifice ? Should 
self never be forgotten ? If a woman’s love leads 
her to self-sacrifice it is well; but I would not teach 
her that it is the end of her being. 


THE OTHER WORLD. 


W E do not need that death shall open to us the 
gates which usher us into another world. 
Long life will open them, and we will find ourselves 
in a world in which we are strangers. We may seek 
to be one of its inhabitants, but we will be looked 
upon as of a former world as dead as we; a world 
which has passed away. Our world is our contem¬ 
poraries’ ; we never can know any other. We may 
linger after they have gone, but in loneliness. We 
have but faint companionship with the few of the 
other world who are left. With them the mournful 
talk is chiefly of the world which has passed away. 
It is true that some find companionship in earth, in 
its clods; and as long as it sticks to them they de¬ 
sire no other. Their world is the soil beneath their 
feet; its possession contents them. 


M 


23 


265 



THRIFTY SELFISHNESS. 


T HRIFTY selfishness is always respectable; it is 
too wise not to be. It carefully conforms to 
the artificial proprieties of life and worships with 
the popular faith, though in its dealings with men it 
cuts to the bone. It never is a martyr at the stake 
or before popular opinion. It brands with impiety 
the manly heart which adores only where it believes. 
It strikes hands with fanaticism, because fanaticism 
is useful. While fanaticism persecutes, it plunders. 
If you are a lawyer or politician, it advises humility 
of habit, not because it pleases you, but because the 
jury or the multitude may be pleased. It is afraid 
to make its office comfortable for fear rude clients 
may not approve. What are gains worth, purchased 
at such a price ? I asked a lawyer, whose office in 
its surroundings was unbefitting a man of his ability 
and means, why he did not make himself more com¬ 
fortable ? He answered that if he did he would lose 
his clients, as they would think they would have to 
pay for it all. To my mind this was slavery, and 
slavery to the ignoble. “ Live your own life” I have 
elsewhere written. Do not be afraid you will perish 

in it. The world will respect you for it. It despises 
266 



THRIFTY SELFISHNESS. 267 

obsequiousness. The man to whom you bend scorns 
you for bending. Still if nature bent your back at 
your birth, with years you will only grow more 
crooked, and admonition is in vain. If a straight 
back was given you, never bend it, or it will soon 
grow crooked. I am not advocating a flourish, an 
arrogance of independence. This is offensive, and 
generally insincere. It is the bluster of the coward. 
I mean that quiet, unobtrusive, yet strong and un¬ 
bending course of life which is felt, yet makes no 
sound. It does not reject counsel or opinion, but 
weighs them. It knows no authority save reason. 
Not that its reason is superior, but because it is the 
only God-given guide. Where reason will not guide 
there is none. To every man is given a “ measure” 
according to his needs. The admonition of the law 
of negligence—“stop, look, and listen”—is a wise 
guide for life. Stop, do not rush heedlessly on ; 
look with your own eyes, do not expect another to 
look for you ; listen, that the sound of danger may 
reach your ears, do not wait for another to report 
to you how near it is. Where it is dark no man can 
guide, for without light every man must grope. 
Where the opaque curtain is drawn, we reject the 
report of the man who tells us what is beyond it. 
He but speculates, and his speculations are no better 
than our own. Each is worthless. It is the effort 
to force men to subscribe to these worthless specu¬ 
lations of the invisible which has filled the world 
with the strife of creeds. We think it is the devo- 


268 


THE IDEALIST 


tion of belief which drives them on, when it is but 
the arrogance of opinion. This arrogance of opinion 
has shown itself stronger than the love of life, 
stronger than the affections of life, for it has made 
enemies of those whom nature bound together. 


THE “FIRST LADY OF THE LAND.” 


\ \ 7TTH us the “first lady of the land” does not 
* * exist. Neither constitution nor law has pro¬ 
vided for such an office. The suffrages are given to 
the man who is elected President: the woman who 
happens to be his wife is not considered. She may 
not be fitted by talents, education, or manners to be 
the “ first lady”; and the fact that her husband has 
been elected President does confer upon her these 
essential requisites for a “ first lady.” She may be 
that which is far better and higher than the conven¬ 
tional lady; a faithful wife and devoted mother, find¬ 
ing the end of her ambition in the just management 
of her household. It is not the beauty nor yet the 
brilliant talents of Queen Victoria which command 
the respect of the English people. I presume she 
has neither. It is her domestic virtues. These are 
stronger to repress the influences which would de¬ 
throne her than England’s armies or statesmen. 
The stability of the English throne is in the home- 
life of its Queen. A vain beauty would follow Marie 
Antoinette in the loss of crown, if not of head. The 
“first lady” must come to that title by some right; 

it must be hereditary or elective; our “ first lady” is 

23* 269 



2 JO 


THE IDEALIST. 


neither. She is the wife of the President, nothing 
more. And as his wife she is not to rival the beau¬ 
ties of the stage, whose charms are exhibited for 
money. It is not the business of the President’s 
wife to be beautiful. If to personal beauty was 
joined the intellect of the women who have ruled in 
the courts of France, then indeed she might be the 
“ first lady” in her own right. As republicans we 
are mad for titles. There is an assumption of them 
in every department of life. Lady is the appendage 
of all female occupations. Do these stolen titles 
dignify labor ? No, they degrade it. Labor needs no 
such fictitious bolstering. It gains nothing by aping. 
They are soiled, cast-off rags or garments stolen 
from domains of other pursuits. Would a man be 
more respected if he dug a cellar in a dress suit ? 
True dignity is in that which is appropriate and fit¬ 
ting, and nothing is so becoming in all men and in 
all women as fitness. A soiled white glove is a 
shabby thing, and shows a soiled taste, while well- 
mended, serviceable gloves show good sense and 
true taste. Patched finery is detestable. Mended 
plainness is thrift and self-respect. It shows that 
the owner is genuine. Be of a piece. Our imita¬ 
tions, our counterfeits, our mock titles all show a 
lack of self-respect. Shams are not universal in the 
American life, but they exist to an extent which 
shames the manhood and womanhood of America. 


FOLLOWING YOUR FATHER’S FAITH. 



HE man who tells you that he regards you be- 


cause your father was a “ good man” makes 
of you a nonentity. We feel under no obligation 
for that kind of regard, based upon that considera¬ 
tion. The object is not to praise the father, but to 
humiliate the son. Praise never comes in a parcel 
tied up with comparisons of inferiority. Praise of 
the father may be grateful to the son, but a proffered 
regard based upon the father’s merits will not be. 
If the son has no merit, save that he is the son of 
his father, then is he without merit, and a nonentity. 
The sect or party to which the father belonged re¬ 
sents as an invidious reflection or insult that the 
son’s refusal to follow the father. “ Do you not be¬ 
lieve that your father was a good man?” Then why 
not worship at the altar at which he bowed, and to 
which he led you as a child ? Because I am no 
longer a child; I am a man, as he was when I fol¬ 
lowed him. The right of the parent to exclude all 
light from the child, save that which comes through 
the windows stained by his opinions and perhaps 
ignorant prejudices, may well be questioned. Nor 
has he the right to weaken the child’s eyes by band- 



272 


THE IDEALIST. 


ages, so that he can never see clearly or with the 
strength of self-investigation. This, however, is the 
only way to make blind, unreasoning bigots; they 
must be moulded in youth. The self-confident pa¬ 
rent thinks he is straightening the twig, when he is 
starting the growth of a tree which will be as crooked 
as himself. In this way the knarled growths which 
deform the world are cultivated. In the leading 
principles of right and wrong, which should govern 
in this life, all men agree. They fight about their 
imaginings of future life, of which they are equally 
confident, and equally ignorant. The parent does 
not own the soul of the child. No one contends 
that he does when the child adopts his faith, but he 
denies that the child shall judge of his own soul’s 
interest when he departs from questioner’s creed, if 
that was father’s faith. It is the parent’s opinion he 
is caring for, more than the child’s good, when he is 
putting the glasses colored by his opinions upon the 
child’s eyes. That confidence in our opinions, which 
blinds us to reason is man’s weakness, and the cause 
of his slavery. Blind bigots are slaves. The greater 
the ignorance, the more absolute the confidence. 

No free-souled man will act as tender to any man 
and carry his luggage. 


WHAT OF TO AT? 


I HAD occasion to-day to say to a client, What of 
that? The beautiful and spacious house which, 
to some extent, was marred by a selfish and, I imagine, 
an envious neighbor, was spoken of, and my client 
once told me how he had dealt with the owner 
of the house when he was in an humble but honest 
occupation. I saw the hateful envy. I knew well 
all he told me, for envy will not permit it to be 
unknown. If it is referred to in order to show the 
energy and courage by which he raised himself from 
his lowly fortune, it could not be objected to; but 
that is not the purpose. It is to show that he is not 
fit for his present fortune, because he was not born 
to it. Would he be more worthy of it if, instead of 
being the fruit of his own toil, it came from the toil 
of his father? I sometimes become so disgusted 
and weary with the littleness, the envy, the malice 
of the majority of men I meet, that I think I would 
like to quit them and join the angels; for I take it 
that angels are not envious; though I fear I should 
have to be metamorphosed before I would be fit for 
their society. How rejoiced would I be to dwell in a 
land where there is no envy; where the good of one 
does not poison the’heart of the other; where praise 
can be bestowed without giving pain to another! 

273 


s 



274 


THE IDEALIST 


But, says my reader, are you so lofty, so superior to 
the rest of us that you have no envy? Do you feel 
no envy at the greater success of a member of your 
own profession or another writer’s book ? Do you 
not offer reasons for that success which soothe 
your own wounded vanity and detract from the 
other’s success ? Well, think as you may, I shall 
not confess. This I can say, I struggle against it. 
I say to the unclean spirit, Begone. He may not 
go; still I hate him none the less. No meaner 
devil was driven into the swine which perished in the 
sea. He sits enthroned ruling men with unbounded 
sway. Often the nearer the relative the more bitter 
the envy. The success of the one is a reflection 
upon the failure of the other. It is a spirit which 
will not be mollified or soothed. Success cannot 
placate failure. Talent cannot make friends with 
inanity. Fulness must expect emptiness to make 
mouths at it. No doubt my readers are weary of 
this subject, I so often thrust it upon them ; but it 
was the incident of the day which brought it to my 
mind so vividly. While one man is despised because 
his father was of no note among men, another is 
disparaged because his father had some name. He 
is not his father’s equal, is said of him. Envy would 
smother him with his father’s virtues, and it will 
exalt and magnify them in order to it. Envy has as 
many colors as Joseph’s coat, and it can turn it as 
often as a politician can change his principles or his 
master. 


UNMOVED. 


F ROM much I have written my readers may think 
I have a touch of the Epicurean. Be that as it 
may, this I will say,—not because I have often read 
it, but because I know it to be true,—life has no 
pleasure which equals the consciousness of duty 
performed. That pleasure has no sting, it leaves no 
nausea. It will bear the first morning thought, the 
first memory of the day, which the night has left in 
the great unchangeable past. Few pleasures will bear 
the scrutiny of morning’s wakening thought. We 
would rather have a sponge which would wipe out 
their memory than the thought which brings them 
back. The cup of pleasure is sweetest at the top; 
the cup of duty is the most delightful at the bottom. 
The latter grows more agreeable as you drink of it; 
the other more bitter. Experience makes me doubt 
whether sorrow is not man’s portion. He seems so 
imperfect, so intensely selfish, made so by his imper¬ 
fections. 

I know a man who seems to be at peace with him¬ 
self, who appears to be serene from complete satis¬ 
faction with himself. His perfect serenity makes 
him unpleasant,—perhaps, from that lurking envy 
which says he has no right to be self satisfied. He 
bears his burdens calmly by reason of this serene 

275 



THE IDEALIST 


276 

content with himself; and I imagine his burdens are 
heavy. He pities the satirist who finds in this com¬ 
placency subject of ridicule; while his own wit has 
a single admirer,—its author. His self-complacency 
' enables him to perform tasks from which sensitive 
natures would shrink; for nothing dulls the nerves 
as self-satisfaction. Want of feeling brings serenity. 
His opinion of himself is an impervious shield. Still 
I admire him for the calmness with which he carries 
his burdens. So unmoved ! Unmoved ,—that is the 
word in the English language I most admire. If I 
had a banner I would write that word upon it. 
Whatever man’s envy may say,—unmoved. If the 
ashes of Vesuvius fall upon me,—unmoved. If I 
move not, they will grow cold. Certain it is, I can¬ 
not fly from them. Not hardness, not insensibility. 
I have often been astonished, for what trifles men 
will forfeit the good opinion of others. The other 
day a man whom I supposed to be a gentleman, 
though my acquaintance with him was but sli ght, 
for a trifling sum of dollars gave me clear proof that 
he was lacking in honor. From this time forth I 
shall have just cause to despise him. The breach of 
honor was plain, palpable, capable of absolute proof. 
He had, however, no honor to forfeit. Some men 
seem to be as lost as was Dr. Faust when he sold 
his soul to the evil one. I could write their names. 
No matter how honorably you deal with them, if 
you trust them, they will take advantage of that 
trust. If you believe them they will betray you. 


UNMO VED. 


2 77 


If you do them a favor they will bite you. But the 
Almighty has carved the marks of treachery on their 
faces, if we would but read them. It is in vain that 
you try to shame them into honor by pointing the 
way in your own dealings with them. I am now 
having such an experience with a member of my 
own profession. The indignation of my client is in¬ 
tense, and his anger is justified. I have been com¬ 
pelled at labor and expense to force this man to do 
that which he should have done cheerfully and 
promptly. The world will never know whom I mean ; 
but if he reads this he will recognize himself. His 
speech is bitterness, his face is marred with the lines 
of hatred. Such men are the sharp stones in the 
path of life against which we bruise our feet. At 
times I write of persons, not to be revenged upon 
them, for they are but shadows to my readers, and 
shadows they will remain; but to give life to that 
which I would say, and to show that I am no mere 
closet moralist, writing of the creations of my brain. 
I copy from living models. I state no principle 
which I have not learned from the actions of living 
men. Every day I fight the battle of life, and in the 
evening con its movements over and draw my re¬ 
flections from its incidents. I am no “ carpet knight.” 
I give and take blows. I loathe the idler, whether 
he be rich or poor. I scorn the beggar’s pride that 
will beg or eat the bread of dependence, which will 
steal under the guise of borrowing rather than work. 

I honor toil and the toiler. 

24 


WOMAN’S TRUE PLACE. 


OMAN is wronged in the wages of her toil. 



V V With every effort she cannot provide for her¬ 
self sufficient food and clothing, even when she is 
well and has work. It is useless to blame her em¬ 
ployers ; they do not carry on business as a charity. 
They no doubt give her all she is worth to them. 
She is in the wrong place, there is the secret of the 
trouble. Her place is in the home, not in the mart; 
and she will never become acclimated. Nature for¬ 
bids her to do man’s work. She is trying to ob¬ 
literate her sex. She fails and suffers. A few per¬ 
sons with men’s souls in women’s bodies succeed; 
but the woman miserably, painfully fails. She must 
have the support of a man or she sinks. She is not, 
cannot be self-supporting. Single instances of suc¬ 
cess do not answer the uncounted millions of failures. 
She cannot compete with man in his pursuits. Said 
a sensible woman to me, Why do not the men marry 
the women and support them ? That question 
answers the problem. Women cannot toil by the 
side of man and in competition with him. She must 
suffer and despair if she attempts it. Her physical 
formation forbids it. Disease and death follow the 


278 



WOMAN'S TRUE PLACE. 


279 


attempt. There are some sedentary employments in 
which she partially succeeds. And when they do 
succeed, how hard and unfeminine they grow; how 
unlike the true woman ! She is not to be strong as 
a man. She cannot be. Opening employments to 
women in most instances is but opening avenues of 
misery. The crowds of young girls and women who 
fill the streets of our cities and large towns every 
morning and evening going to and returning from 
work which is apart from home, show that our civil¬ 
ization is at fault. Sorrow, misery, want follow them. 
With many, it is true, it is but a temporary thing be¬ 
fore matrimony. I have no suggestion to offer. I 
see the great violation of nature’s laws. I cannot 
ask the American girl to accept employment as a 
domestic. I would do as she does, starve in freedom 
and self-respect before I would put up with the 
humiliations of domestic service. I am not writing 
cant or giving “ good advice.” I am looking at and 
respecting the spirit of the girl. I know that pride 
and poverty are sad companions. I also know that 
a “ bruised spirit” cannot be healed with bread. We 
cannot be fed into happiness. I give the poor girl 
my silent pity,—a valueless gift,—but it is all I have. 
I know not how to benefit her. This I do know, 
that, so far as woman is concerned, our vaunted nine¬ 
teenth century civilization is a failure. I know that 
priest and church help her but little. The Moham¬ 
medan shuts her up and feeds her. We give her 
freedom and starve her. She must go back to her 


28 o 


THE IDEALIST. 


true place, home, and stay there. Every man who 
has done business with women know how unfit they 
are for it. Lawyers know it to their annoyance and 
vexation. A woman in business is as awkward as a 
woman running to catch a street-car. No man could 
fall in love with her seeing her in either pursuit. 
She is never content out of home. 


“KILLING TIME.” 



OTHING is so hard to kill as time. A man 


^ can kill himself much easier. He tries to kill 
time, but in revenge time kills his enemy with celer¬ 
ity, while he spares his friends. Time makes a stout 
resistance and refuses to be killed. He strikes back 
and inflicts weariness, ennui, melancholy, insanity, 
and death. For his enemy he takes the flavor out 
of life, makes it insipid and wearisome. He stretches 
himself out, doubles himself only to make his enemy 
feel how heavy and how long he can become. If 
treated as an enemy he makes the day dark and the 
night wearisome. He will not let the sun rise nor 
the moon to go down. He drags the limbs, dulls 
the eyes, and bows the head. Let no human being 
strive to “ kill time.” He is too strong. When 
properly used he is a friend; when abused, a deadly 
enemy. The most wretched men I know are en¬ 
gaged in killing time; the happiest in greeting him. 
His enemies wander about hunting weapons to kill 
him with. They pick up evil habits which slay them 
and not time. They seek the aid of companions who 
make time longer and more wearisome. 


281 



A CHEAP WORLD. 


T HIS is a cheap world, and it grows angry with 
the man who refuses to rate its baubles high. 
It says he is vexed because he cannot reach them. 
It is vexed because vanity cannot hide their cheap¬ 
ness. It is vexed with the man who sees in the 
sweet face of a girl or other object of gentle nature a 
more attractive object than banquets and speeches 
of mutual adulation. Insincerity is the chief guest 
at every banquet, and falsehood hides itself in the 
feast’s empty bottles. I wonder men are not ashamed 
to look each other in the face while giving the attri¬ 
butes of the fabled gods to men. There is certainly 
an unexpressed understanding that they are but act¬ 
ing parts in a farce. Does this falsehood strengthen 
men ? Does it really incite them to useful actions ? 
No true growth can come from false seed. 

Public opinion is not ascertained by ballot; nor is 
the evidence of it traced in the noisy town-meeting 
where flimsy-built boilers blow off steam or vapor. 
Their explosion would work but slight destruction. 
It is that silent but irresistible public opinion which 
overrides the counting of the ballot. Moral and politi¬ 
cal truths are not ascertained by the count of numbers. 
Ignorance is not changed by addition. It is ignorance 

282 



A CHEAP WORLD. 


283 


still, however it is numbered or however great the 
count. A mountain of ignorance weighs more; but 
it is of no more use than the separate atoms of which 
it is composed. It is ignorance still. 

Many think that devotees and worshippers who 
betray trusts and plunder the confiding are of neces¬ 
sity hypocrites. Not so. They are as sincere in 
their devotions as the just. They rob and pray from 
the same motive,—to benefit self. They rob to get 
and enjoy the goods of this world. They pray to 
obtain the heaven of the next. I have seen that ex¬ 
treme superstitious devotion may be joined in the 
same man with the most absolute and absorbing sel¬ 
fishness. Fear of want in this world may make a 
man steal; and a fear of future punishment may 
make him worship. Their piety is not the love of 
good, but the love of the good things of this and 
the future life. Outward devotion is not a cloak. 
Men do not profess piety to deceive. It shows but a 
shallow knowledge of human nature to assume be¬ 
cause the devout man has been plundering the bank 
of which he was president that he was false in his 
devotions, an unbeliever in his professions. He ex¬ 
pected to be forgiven, and the habit of devotion was a 
part of his nature. I have come in pretty close con¬ 
tact with such men, and watched them closely. I 
have beheld in amazement the entire absence of that 
restraint which for want of a better term we call con¬ 
science, joined with a manifest fondness for worship, 
by which I mean a desire to adore, to prostrate the 


284 


THE IDEALIST 


body, or to turn upward the beseeching eye. There 
are but few hypocrites in religion, though the world 
is full of deception. Men worship not to deceive 
but to placate, or to obtain the protection and bless¬ 
ing of a deity gratified by their prostrations. 

A man may be sincere without strength; but men 
of strength, men whose influence lives, are always 
sincere men. A man cannot in life play a successful 
part, he must be it. Insincerity is the weakness in 
the joints of many a man’s armor. This has dulled 
his sword so that it will not cut. Every successful 
founder of a new faith believed it. No conscious 
impostor ever established a new creed. Sincerity is 
the power which moves the world. I have seen men 
who have gained wealth and reputation in their pro¬ 
fessions, and yet they never took hold of the commu¬ 
nity. The community refused to believe in them, 
refused to respect them. Why? They lacked sin¬ 
cerity. The confidence, the true fame among men 
cannot be forced. A man’s position is given him; 
and no effort of his directed to the purpose can 
change it. It is founded upon the weighing of the 
man, not of spasmodic acts, but of the life. I have 
seen men try so hard to get a new trial, a new award ; 
but the verdict was rendered, the award made, and 
the tribunal—the general sense of the community— 
could not be moved. Individual opinions may be 
unjust, spoken or written opinions may be moved by 
malignity and envy, but that consensus of men is 
mostly just. If a man lacks sincere convictions, the 


A CHEAP WORLD. 


285 


world is not deceived by pretences. It may not 
always speak its true opinion in a man’s favor; but 
in the inner sense it is fixed. It is useless to advise 
a man to be sincere; for if he is not, if it is not the 
fibre of his nature, he cannot cultivate it. As the 
original forest, it is the first growth of tall, magnifi¬ 
cent sincerity, or the scrub oak of pretence. The 
community will not only form its opinions in its own 
way, but in its own time. It will neither be hurried 
nor changed. If it was not one of the saddest exhibi¬ 
tions of human weakness, vanity, and intolerance, a 
trial for “ heresy” would be the meanest and cheap¬ 
est thing on earth. A body of fallible men trying 
another fallible man, not because his life fails in 
purity and generosity, but because he refuses to ac¬ 
cept their dreams, and repeats his own. No man has 
yet seen, no man will ever see, through the darkness 
that rests between this and another existence. No 
man has had, no man will ever have, a vision of the 
beyond after this life. To see men sit in solemn 
conclave to try and to condemn a fellow-man because 
his phrases are not their phrases, because his mean¬ 
ingless definitions are not as theirs, would be subject 
of scorn if it did bring so much misery. They can¬ 
not guide or teach their “ erring” brother, for neither 
see ; but they can make him very miserable. They 
have not wisdom, but they have keen-pointed dag¬ 
gers. Wounded vanity has produced the intolerance 
which has ground to bloody sharpness the weapons 
of persecution. 


286 


THE IDEALIST. 


“ Ambition,” as a restless spirit is called, flatters 
men. The ambitious man unconsciously flatters his 
fellow-men. He shows them how much he longs 
for their praise. He may think he looks down upon 
them; but he begs them to look up to him, to note 
him. 

In the clamor of controversy, in the strife for mas¬ 
tery, in the petty ambition the good of man is for¬ 
gotten. Opinion is put above conduct, creed above 
the life. Is it, then, a marvel that those who betray 
men’s trust are worshippers of creeds ? If men are 
taught that a true life weighs nothing before the 
deity if the man’s dogmas are wrong, can we wonder 
that he worships and steals, not in hypocrisy, but in 
blindness? Is it a matter of surprise that he thinks 
he can make his peace with his God apart from his 
life among men ? A creed which does not touch the 
life of men is valueless. The love of power forms 
creeds, the love of man forms the true life. One is 
born in haughtiness and dominion, the second grows 
in consideration for others. 


A RHAPSODY. 


\\/E are passing through a cloud of dishonesty: 

* * I had almost written an age of dishonesty. 
It is again repeated, This brings no dishonor upon 
the church in which these thieves were prominent. 
This is false,—“ By their fruits shall ye know them.” 
A church, which brings forth such fruit cannot be 
sound. Certainly it does not teach men to steal; no 
religious faith ever did so teach. Religions which 
we pronounce false teach honesty. It is not enough 
to teach honesty and truth: it must bring it forth; 
it must be the fruit of the teaching. If the tree 
does not bring forth such fruit, the tree must be 
faulty. We need not reformation; we need a revolu¬ 
tion. The “ depths” must be “ stirred.” Reputations 
are being wrecked, and are falling before investiga¬ 
tion as grass before the mower. What public official 
is honest ? What officer laden with a trust can be 
trusted to bear it? These are the painful inquiries. 
The minor magistracy of the city in which I live, 
unlearned in the law, unfit to give intelligent judg¬ 
ment, is a shame to the administration of justice. 
As a practising lawyer, I abhor their courts, where 
I feel no confidence that reason or law will guide 

their proceedings or judgments; where a trial can 

287 



288 


THE IDEALIST. 


be compared only to a bar-room brawl. In most of 
them there is an utter lack of dignity and decorum. 
The existence of the whole body is a public calamity. 
They have their favorites among a certain class of 
lawyers. I have seen in magistrates’ offices a pros¬ 
titution of their petty power so bold that none but 
the most hardened men could be capable of. Many 
of them are equally destitute of shame, decency, and 
law. I have seen a magistrate force a counsel upon 
an unwilling suitor. I have heard a magistrate say, 

“ Officer, go for Mr.-,” and the court waited for 

the counsel, and yet the suitor had not. asked for 
him and did not know him. I have seen a magis¬ 
trate treat plain-settled rules of law which protect 
the rights of the suitor with the utmost contempt, 
and give judgment where the cause had been with¬ 
drawn. This in violation of the law as laid down 
by the Supreme Court of the State, and the people 
are dumb under it. The man who has the courage 
to impeach one of these officials would perform a 
public service. As the hidden misery of the fear 
of the certain detection breaks upon the community 
they are surprised they did not sink under; that it 
could be borne; that it did not crush. Now they 
would have mountains to fall upon them. The dark 
walls of the dungeon are a refuge, for they shut out 
the face of man. No new lesson, no new guide can 
be drawn from this revelation of man’s perfidy. It 
is all old. It is a weary repetition. The other night 
I heard a sweet song, and I thought of nearly for- 



A RHAPSODY. 


289 


gotten loves, of the days of my youth; and the dead 
came out of the graves of memory. And in that 
sweet dream how rude and coarse all this contention 
about earth-dug gold seemed. For a time I was in 
a purer air, the air which surrounds the head of 
young love. What is all this controversy about ? 
Why do men grow hot and cold ? For what do 
their hearts sink within them? How poor it is! 
One hour of youthful love is worth all the miserable 
remnants of the years of age’s avarice. I cannot 
call up these gentle dreams, these beauteous recol¬ 
lections : they sweep over me. The old school-house 
in the dreams not of the day but of the night, how 
often it appears to me ! Neither by day nor by night 
do I dream of what is passing on around me. The 
incidents of the day take but little hold upon me. 
The faces I meet and pass I cannot remember; they 
float away. It is backward, ever backward. No 
doubt to me now that same school-house would 
look cheap and ordinary, the scholars would be for¬ 
gotten in an hour. Yet can I now recall almost 
every face and repeat over their names, and I would 
travel many miles to see those same childish and 
youthful faces. But, alas, if they live, youth has 
passed from them. They would interest me no 
longer. Years have stolen youth and interest. With¬ 
out memory how sterile would years be ! It is recol¬ 
lection which waters the arid plains of life. These 
waters sometimes wipe the dust of years for the 

moment from our eyes. 
n t 25 


290 


THE IDEALIST. 


Truth cannot be harmed; that which is true in 
any faith cannot be injured by the falsity of its pro¬ 
fessors. The truth stands though the creed falls, 
though the door of its worshipper’s house should 
close, and its ministers be silent. He only “ bears 
his punishment like a man” who has acted like a 
man and is free from crime. If he is guilty, he bears 
it like a criminal, no matter how insensible he may 
be. It is a degradation of the name of man to put 
in the place of criminal. By his acts he has lost his 
name. Another has been given to him. 


POVERTY. 


B EHIND that form of selfishness which we call 
dishonesty is the dread, the hatred of poverty. 
Poverty, the ugly, that which no philosophy can make 
beautiful, no faith make acceptable. Its mark is un¬ 
mistakable. It will not be hid. The home shows 
it, the face betrays it, and the dress cannot disguise 
it. Its praise is falsehood, its songs deception. No 
man loves it if he is sane. If he says he does he is 
deceived or deceives. When he voluntarily em¬ 
braces it reason is dethroned and emotion is master. 
Yet the most of men always have been and always 
will be poor. Ill-paid toil is the burden of most of 
the children of men. Seeing its hideousness men 
become thieves; to flee from it they run into crime. 
Hidden dishonesty they deem better than open pov¬ 
erty. They see the apparent good of riches, and 
they would get riches to share it. Most men who 
have acquired great wealth have taken the chances 
of the exposure of crooked methods. Some succeed, 
others are caught; that is the only difference. There 
is no remedy. It is vain to say that honest poverty 
has peace, that stolen wealth has none. It has the 

peace of callousness when the danger of discovery 

291 



2Q2 


THE IDEALIST. 


has passed away; when the gains are sufficient to 
lull or crush suspicion, or to buy its silence. The 
difference between the honest and the dishonest man 
is much a difference of appetite. One wants, the 
other does not. The one is parched for luxury, the 
other has but little taste for it. Liquor does not 
tempt all men; gold does not tempt all men. But 
he must be strong who can calmly contemplate the 
show of wealth and the meagreness of poverty. 

Peculation makes a name common property, and 
loses for it all sacredness. It is the text of the 
sermon, the point of the moral lesson, the subject 
of wit and scoff. The world to the bearer of that 
name is at an end. These are the thoughts which 
check those whom a sense of right would not re¬ 
strain. Men are born honest; men are born dis¬ 
honest. It is in the blood, which they are. Teaching 
will neither make a man one or the other. It will 
not create a thief; it will not restrain him. All we 
can do with him is to cut him off from the habita¬ 
tions of men. Punishment shows how limited is the 
power of men,—we can feed, and clothe, and house 
him at public expense. The public cannot balance 
accounts with him. We have only his body,—and of 
what worth is that? Few of them can earn the 
food it takes to feed them. As they are born dis¬ 
honest, they care not for man’s reproaches, which 
but beat the rock of indifference. One man cannot 
punish the wrong of another man. The wrong is 
done; its record is written ; it cannot be erased. The 


POVERTY. 


293 


dead cannot be brought to life; and the death of the 
guilty is no compensation for the life of the innocent. 

A man walking the highways of life without 
money is a cripple without crutches, a combatant 
without arms. With brain and muscle he is help¬ 
less. The pygmy with money commands, where the 
giant lacking gold is treated with scorn. When such 
is the power of money, can we wonder that men 
steal it ? Since men began to write they have praised 
honesty, and the reader has practised dishonesty. 
All cheating is but theft. The seller who lies as to 
his goods is a thief. What is the remedy? There 
is none. When men no longer are hungry or thirsty, 
when they no longer feel winter’s blast, then will 
they be honest. There is not plenty for all. There 
is scant measure for most men. If they are weak 
they submit, but unwillingly, to the scant measure. 
Who would go into the mine, who would be a 
prisoner on the sea, if want did not drive him ? We 
do not belong here ; we have no business here. Per¬ 
haps we belong nowhere. Men in all ages have 
looked for another life, for a better world. They 
have seen it in different lights, and hoped for far dif- 
erent worlds, but all better than this. 

He has stolen a few pieces of paper, some metal, 
and he is accursed. It is true that represents what 
men desire. Still it is but a representative. We 
must patch up the effect of dishonesty, we cannot 
prevent it. Has one man the right to keep that 

which he does not need, and for lack of which an- 

25* 


294 


THE IDEALIST. 


other man perishes ? Can he lock up the corn to 
rot, while the multitude starve? Only by virtue of 
man’s law; he cannot do it under nature’s law. The 
main purpose of man’s law is to keep other men’s 
hands out of our pockets. Our right to keep would 
be more sacred if we had created or produced the 
property we grasp. Each man’s portion would be 
small if he had but his own productions or their 
equivalent. It is his cunning which gets possession 
of mine. Who cares for humble piety? Where is 
it regarded ? Not in the temple. And would it be 
humble but for poverty ? When I see poor men the 
leaders in the churches, then will I believe that pov¬ 
erty has some respect on earth. When I see the 
bishop as he makes his ecclesiastical tour seek the 
poor man’s house as his home, then will I believe 
that he “ who had not where to lay his head” has 
some followers on earth. What creates dishonesty ? 
The universal worship of wealth, the universal con¬ 
tempt of poverty. There is no exception. The re¬ 
spect for honest poverty, no matter where it is 
taught, it is but dishonest prating. Men eat dry 
bread because they cannot, or by reason of a weak 
digestion dare not, eat anything else. Of course I 
have not considered the insane fanatic. This, says 
my critical reader, is not in harmony with much that 
you have written. Rightly understood it is. It is 
simply another view of man as he is, not as theorists 
describe him. 

It is the evident purpose of the power which 


POVERTY. 


295 


governs in the destiny of men that all fates shall be 
even. The sting of the golden serpent which is felt 
by those around whom he coils his longed-for em¬ 
brace, the melancholy and poverty of the men of 
genius, show the evenness of destiny. The busy man 
is exhausting his vitality for slender compensation, 
food, and shelter. Which is the more fortunate, the 
man of care and profits, or the man without care and 
thin purse ? A few years of exhausting toil, followed 
by paralysis ; or gentler toil, with less fortune. I 
have seen the toil-worn lawyer scarce reach middle 
life, break in health, and die, and I have queried,—to 
what end ? It seems he was a watch wound up ; he 
must go or be broken. Incessant toil had become 
the habit of his life. “ It is the end which sanctifies.” 
If his purpose was gain, it was an unworthy life. 

The same road leads to shame that leads to wealth. 
One man stumbles, the other does not. This de¬ 
termines where the journey shall end. One custo¬ 
dian of the monev of others who uses it as his own 

✓ 

is fortunate and can replace it; the other is unfortu¬ 
nate and is discovered. One sleeps within a prison’s 
walls, the other is a free and counted a prosperous 
man. The same methods brought these different 
endings. Is this the evenness of destiny of which 
you have just written? asks the reader. To my 
short sight it does not appear so. Yet when I see 
the harmony of nature’s movements I cannot but 
think there is harmony here could we but see it. 
The successful man, as we call him, has for that 


296 


THE IDEALIST. 


success given his life; and when attained, his life is 
exhausted, a “ broken pitcher” at the fountain of 
fortune. Who knows of the weary days and sleep¬ 
less nights of the uncaught, respected thief? Men 
who reach the prison-cell through crime have found 
their true home. 


DON’T WEAR OUT THE FACE. 


D ON’T wear out the face in trying to make it 
more attractive. The lines of the smile will 
become the sour, hard lines of pain as the years bear 
the burden of the counterfeit, or even of the genuine 
but weary manifestation of amiability. It is the flash 
of the sudden, unexpected parting of the lips and the 
display of the beautiful teeth of the animated life 
which is a delight to behold, not the grin of the 
skeleton. The player on the stage keeps smooth his 
face that he may paint on it the characters of the 
others, and in this he often loses the identity of his 
own. Why are most faces of men and women who 
have passed youth so painfully unattractive ? Why do 
they give you discomfort to look at them ? Is it be¬ 
cause time’s lines are hard, selfish, and cruel ? We 
put in the hands of time the brush with which he 
paints our faces; and the character of the lines he 
draws is ours, not his. It is we who put suspicion 
in the eye and cruelty about the mouth. I turn 
away from most old faces, from most faces of middle 
age. I see there no impress of goodness, no sweet¬ 
ness left. I sometimes think it is only the child’s 

face upon which I can look with pleasure. Yet I be- 

297 



298 


THE IDEALIST. 


lieve the heart is often better than the face. If it 
was not, we could not dwell together. Sorrow hard¬ 
ens the face as well as selfishness, and that we can¬ 
not keep away. But sorrow comes mostly from 
fault or folly. We must not look at each other 
through microscopes. We cannot endure such a test. 
There are few, perhaps none, who are not beautiful 
to some one. There is some one who does not see 
the bed of the river marked upon the face over which 
the waters of self have flowed. 

The smoothness of innocence is more attractive 
than the lines of experience. Experience brings with 
wisdom, repulsion. No woman is made more lovely 
by experience. Time’s waters wear unpleasing 
channels, from whatever fountain they may flow. 

Envy is at the bottom of the loud clamor against 
marriage between persons of “ unsuitable ages.” No 
one is troubled because a man’s clothes do not fit 
him, because his shoes pinch his feet. If he makes 
a bad bargain and loses his property, the world does 
not grieve over it. Then why should the community 
agonize over an ill-fitting marriage, or worry because 
happiness has been sunk in it? Malignant envy can 
answer the question. The young girl perhaps is 
pitied. Do these lovers of their kind pity her in her 
badly-paid toil, in her privations, in her scantily-fur¬ 
nished home, in her meagre food, in her thin gar¬ 
ments, in her sorrows? No. But if she exchange 
these for a comfortable home with a man of “ unsuit¬ 
able age,” every envious old woman, every badly- 


DON’T WEAR OUT THE FACE . 299 

mated old man is shocked, and their hearts are full 
of pity for the “ poor girl.” Most of apparent good¬ 
ness has a mean and selfish groundwork. “ She 
only marries him for his money.” For what would 
the older woman marry him ? For love? That is 
mockery. She wants just what the young girl wants, 
a home. A green orange may ripen and have sweet¬ 
ness beneath its rind; but the rind of a squeezed one 
will yield nothing but bitterness. 


CRIME NOT AN INCIDENT OF LIFE. 


M ISFORTUNE is an incident of life, it comes 
unbidden. Crime is not an incident of life, 
it comes not unbidden. Let no man carry his crime 
to the door of misfortune, and lay it there. That is 
not its home. Let him keep it on his back,—there’s 

r 

where it belongs. In the community in which I live 
there is a present demand for honesty. The man 
who only knows enough to do his duty and be 
honest, is not looked upon as such a fool as prosper¬ 
ous thieves have been thinking him to be. It is be¬ 
ginning to dawn upon the minds of men that there 
is wisdom, if there is not riches, in integrity. It took 
an earthquake of roguery to cast this thought up. 
Men see that dishonesty is destruction ; that the thief 
undermines society. 

Honesty cannot be created by corporations. They 
are but the aggregations of individuals. Combina¬ 
tions will bring neither wisdom nor integrity if the in¬ 
dividuals who form them possess neither. Multiply 
ignorance by ignorance, and it is ignorance still. 
Add venality to roguery, and the result is a thief 
with many hands. 

It is a difficult matter to bury a thief who has 



CRIME NOT AN INCIDEN 7 OF LIFE. 3OI 

partisan power. The people cover him with obloquy; 
but he is soon seen, while his grave-clothes yet hang 
on him, and the mud of his tomb still sticks to them. 
He knows no moral death. He perceives not that 
the odor of the buried is around him, and that his 
touch is deadly. 


26 


THE RICH AND THE POOR CANNOT 

KEEP STEP. 



HE rich and the poor cannot dwell together; 


they cannot walk together; they cannot keep 
step with each other. The poor must fall behind. 
The poor man who is wise, and the rich man who 
does not wish to mortify, do not seek the joining of 
hands or habitations. The recognition of this truth 
would save much mortification. Officials would live 
within their incomes with respect, and not exceed 
them to their shame. Their consideration does not 
depend upon the vain show of their wealth. 


3 02 



SOME ESTIMATES OF CHARACTER. 


T HE man whom they imitate has but his money 
to give him consideration. They have their 
office, their public duties, and the esteem these bring 
to give them consideration. Then what folly to lose 
that consideration in debt, borrowing, and the slavery 
they bring. No man can obtain true or solid con¬ 
sideration by the fruits of borrowing, or in a show 
which his income will not support. It will in the 
end bring only mortification and shame. Public dis¬ 
honor follows close upon the heels of such vanity. 

When the respected man is found out in his crime, 
which is generally the crimeyi falsi , the calmness 
with which he bears the loss of his good name is a 
matter of wonder. It need not astonish us ; the man 
is a born criminal, and when within prison walls he 
feels that he has found his home,—the home to 
which his whole life has been spent in the journey. 
Had a prison not been his home, he would not be 
there by a just conviction. If injustice puts him 
there, then he is an alien and not a citizen by birth 
of the land of the criminal. The man who yields to 
temptation has the seeds of crime within him. They 
never can be planted from without. For years he 

3°3 



304 


THE IDEALIST. 


has inhabited this dwelling in his imagination. The 
walls of his chamber he has seen turn to prison walls. 
In the sighing of the wind he has heard the creaks 
of the jailer’s key. Affrighted, yet pushing on to 
his home. 

People who live much alone, and who hug close 
their sorrows, are pained at the apparent and often 
real indifference of the world, and are offended when 
they do not meet with sympathy. It is weakness to 
crave sympathy; for sympathy seldom goes abroad 
without her sister of the whole blood,—contempt. 
Those who accept the arm of the one must expect 
to find the other ready to offer her company. I sup¬ 
pose there are natures who love a clinging humanity. 
I do not. Dependence and tears are nauseating to 
me. Melting turns snow to water and human beings 
to contempt. Better remain ice than soften by melt¬ 
ing. Melting humanity, tearful humanity, do but lit¬ 
tle good. I have known persons all my life whom I 
have never met but they had a whine in their mouth. 
If I have a spark of kindness in me they smother it. 
I feel no pity for their oft-told woes. They are ice- 
makers of the human heart. 

He wears a mask, but it is a kindly mask. If the 
hand is as kind as the mask, shall we tear off the 
mask ? It may be worn, not to deceive, but to hide 
a bleeding heart, to hide a pained seif. I suppose 
most masks smile upon you. A terrifying mask 
would be useless. Masks are to win, not to repel. 
They may hide a restless, unhappy soul. The rest- 


SOME ESTIMATES OF CHARACTER. 305 


less soul, uncertain of itself, reaching it knows not 
whither, craving it knows not what, it does well to 
hide behind a mask. Calmness, not joy; serenity, 
not pleasure : these are to be sought for. They may 
be found; the others cannot be. 

I read a memoir of a man for whom I had consid¬ 
erable admiration, written by his friend and intimate. 
The writer’s intention was to praise. He painted a 
face from which I turned away. The memoir de¬ 
stroyed my respect for the subject of it. I saw I 
had been mistaken in my estimate of the man. I 
thought him a lofty soul. I found he was arrogant 
and inflated with self-admiration; that he assumed 
a superiority that neither his talents nor his services 
justified. Genius he had none; of the creative fac¬ 
ulty he was barren. His record was written on the 
air. He strutted as a god, and stooped as the weak¬ 
est of mortals. He was a “ statesman” without a 
public measure to prove him such. He could pour 
invective upon men greater and nobler than himself 
with an assumption of elegance. Coarseness can be 
detected beneath the tawdry cloak. Few biographies 
that do not lessen the subjects of them. In a man’s 
works we see the greater man ; in the minutiae of his 
life the lesser man. The most beautiful skin becomes 
rugged and repulsive beneath the microscope. So does 
the reputation lose beneath the pen of a truth-telling 
biographer ; and it is destroyed by a lying one. We 
cannot by pen or speech, by granite, marble, or iron, 

build a reputation for a man. It must be self-built. 
u 26* 


3°6 


THE IDEALIST. 


The old man may point to his record and say, 
That I have done. The young man says, That will 
I do. The one is a castle of stone, the other a 
“ castle of air.” One of the striking traits of the 
villain of the modern novel and drama is his undying 
love. Not only does he commit every crime for the 
possession of the woman he loves, not only does he 
pursue her through swamps and jungles, but he is 
willing to take her at second-hand after her youth has 
faded in the love of another. He is willing to take 
the stem from which the leaves have been plucked. 
It would seem as though such love, though mis¬ 
guided, was worthy of a better ornament than the 
hand-cuffs which embellish his exit. The good man 
has fresh young love to support him. His wicked 
rival is willing to eat husks, but cannot get them. 

It is better to laugh at folly than to scorn it; to 
see how ludicrous pretension is than to hate and 
condemn it. It is a sad business to be stripping off 
feathers. The bird with its feathers on is more beau¬ 
tiful. The butterfly fluttering in the sun is more 
lovely than the owl hooting in the ivy. Hooting 
pleases not, neither does it mend. Perchance if you 
would mend you would break. We must have folly 
to set wisdom off. If all were wise we would not 
know wisdom. It is only by its contrast with folly 
that we know wisdom exists. 

Said a friend to me, “ He has a self-poise that in¬ 
dicates strength.” He meant that he did not lean 
on others. The man of “ self-poise” will never be 


SOME ESTIMATES OF CHARACTER. 30 J 

broken by the death of others. But a community 
of self-poised men could not exist. They would 
repel each other. They avoid or collide. Neither 
friendship nor love exists among equals. For either 
there must be dependence. One bends. For love 
one looks down. He that loves looks upward. Eyes 
meeting on a level line are more likely to flash with 
hate than melt with love. 

It is easy to misunderstand men whose methods of 
life, whose surroundings, whose early circumstances 
differ from our own. To require them to come up 
to our standards may be immeasurably harsh. 

Is a man justified in trying to take from the world 
its delusions ? Do not these delusions help to make 
life more endurable? Must not truth be clothed? 
Can we endure her if she is not? The world has 
thought we could not; that we were not strong 
enough. Social life is mostly based on fiction. This 
age is insisting on absolute truth, and much “ dogma” 
is crumbling. Mankind are growing up, they are 
ceasing to be children, and are brushing aside stories 
which can only be told to children. The burden of 
this book is that truth is always better. She will 
enter the inner chambers of our thought. She will 
force herself there; and it is better that we should 
invite her than have her an unbidden guest. A man 
is poorly engaged who is striving to force upon us 
fictions for our benefit. 

I read the other day, written by some clown of 
fortune, “that a man had no right to be handsome.” 


3°8 


THE IDEALIST. 


This is hard upon woman,—that she must always 
gaze upon and ever love ugliness. The very man 
who made the statement I have quoted, plans his 
beard as though he was making a fortification, or 
daily and painfully cuts off nature’s protecting growth, 
or in some way strives to hide nature’s scant recog¬ 
nition. Is man to be the only ugly animal in crea¬ 
tion ? The greater part of the rest of the animal 
kingdom is beautiful. Must he take his place by the 
side of his caricature,—the baboon ? He is not to 
steal woman’s beauty, but to have a beauty of his 
own. Most intellectual men have been handsome 
men; the casket and the jewel within have agreed. 
The world will never accept an apotheosis of ugli¬ 
ness. Man is more than a drudge. 

Nothing more surely shows a slavish spirit than 
the American worship of the tinsel of Europe,—that 
worship which refuses to see the poverty and misery 
of the very class from which perchance the ancestors 
of these sycophants sprung. A form of government 
is to be judged by the condition of the whole people, 
and not by the supposed virtues of a privileged class. 
How we try to get above our fellows! The driver 
of a police van rings a bell that honesty may make 
way for his ruffian load. Based upon the law, he 
assumes this superiority. 

A streak of coarseness in a writing, how much 
beauty will it overshadow! A sentence will mar 
our ideal of an author. We see something which we 
did not suppose could exist. One coarse description 


SOME ESTIMATES OF CHARACTER . 309 

which I found in a poem of a deeply religious and 
usually refined poet has made such an unpleasant 
impression upon my mind that I cannot think of 
him as I did. I feel that he should not have ob¬ 
served that which he so minutely describes. Some¬ 
how unpleasant impressions will fasten upon the mind, 
and the effort of reason to drive them out only rivets 
them in the memory. It takes much good to cover 
a little evil; but a little evil will hide much good. 
This is especially true in matters of taste. I am sorry 
I found it. Deeply religious characters have for me 
great fascination. Belief is more interesting than 
unbelief. Unbelief in its nature is apt to be coarse; 
while the true devotional feeling is refined. Worship 
brings softness, though it may not bring strength. 

It is not the wrinkles, it is not the gray hair, it is 
not the faded cheeks or the dimmed eyes which 
make the face of age unpleasant. It is the hardened 
look, the furrows ploughed by bitter thoughts, the 
marks of the storms which have swept over it. It is 
these which make it hateful to look upon. We turn 
away, not from age, but from the soured life written 
on its face, from the passion-swept face. Many old 
faces I cannot bear to look upon. I see the impress 
of the conflict of selfishness. Selfishness may have 
triumphed; but the triumph cannot wash out its 
stains. A gentle spirit alone leaves an old age which 
is endurable to look upon. The life may have been 
too hard, even for the gentle nature, and hardness 
has conquered. 


OUR INTERESTS ARE WITH OUR FEL¬ 
LOW-MAN. 


I NSTEAD of trying to pry into mysteries which 
are absolutely hidden from us; instead of seek¬ 
ing to grasp that which our hands cannot hold ; in¬ 
stead of despising that which we can know in seek¬ 
ing for that which we cannot know; let us be men 
and not lose our manhood in striving to be more 
than men,—to “ be as gods.” Our interests are with 
our fellow-man. We know no other ; our duty is to 
him. We can have no other. We can assist him ; 
we were created for that purpose. The power which 
moves the universe is beyond our help. If we spent 
the effort in benefiting man we do in persuading or 
forcing him to believe as we do upon subjects of 
which we know nothing, we would increase the sum 
of his happiness. Let us cease wrestling with the 
unknowable and labor for the good of the known. 
The solemn conclave sitting to reveal and point out 
God’s will to man, and thundering his condemnation 
upon those who do not accept their revelations, is 
presumption inconceivable. Does God’s will vary ? 
Can his will be read to suit the change in human 

thought made by the increase oflight,—human light? 
310 




OUR INTERESTS ARE WITH OUR FELLOW-MAN. 3 11 

Can these men tell us how a blade of grass grows ? 
They cannot explain the most ordinary operation of 
nature, and yet they can teach us God’s will! When 
God gives us a creed it will be for all time, and all 
men will know it. He has no “ chosen people.” His 
fixed laws will not bring them into existence. Man’s 
self-love, not God’s equality, created them. God has 
no choice; all his creatures are alike before him. 
All must obey his laws or suffer. 


CATCHING THE RAYS. 


I T E who can be thoroughly imbued with the 
a writings of one man by an absorbing devo¬ 
tion, who reads all that he has written and all that 
has been written about him, may so imbibe his spirit 
as to become a part of him. He catches at least a 
reflection of the inspiration which fell upon the object 
of his absorption. Thus to a greater or lesser extent 
he becomes a double man,—the original and the ab¬ 
sorbed. Every ray of the spirit of the author which 
is caught is an illumination. General readers do not 
make the author a part of themselves. They gain 
but little weight. It is concentration which gives 
force. From a native turn of mind we catch the 
light of some authors; while the writings of others 
is to us all darkness. In the writings of the most 
popular of living poets I can hear nothing but the 
jingle of words. It is my ear which is deaf to their 
melody; for melody they must have, or so many 
ears would not have heard it. I have found sweeter 
verses in the corner of some newspaper—the work 
of an unknown author—than I could ever find in the 
ponderous volumes of some “ great” poet. It was 

the tiny flower, it was the single ray,—sweet and 
312 


\ 




CATCHING THE RAYS. 


313 


bright. In writings the gems of beauty are small as 
the diamond. They are never iron mountains. It 
is the few lines which live forever. Men write vol¬ 
umes for libraries, lines for readers; the one to fill 
the shelf, the other to fasten in the memory. There 
is a seeming inconsistency in what I have just writ¬ 
ten. Yet each thought is true. When we get out 
of the world of our favored author we say, Now am 
I with myself, my companion is gone. We feel alone. 
Thus do I feel at the present moment. I am no 
longer walking with him, talking with him, as I was 
a few moments ago, though the “ earthly tabernacle” 
has long since returned to earth. It is the immortal 
spirit I feel. Not a ghost, but a thought, which was 
part of him. 


o 


27 


A LAWYER PUTTING HIS HONOR IN 

PLEDGE. 


NDER no circumstance should a lawyer make 



himself personally liable for his client. He 
should never undertake for him, promise for him, or 
make affidavits for him. He should ever be the at¬ 
torney and advocate, nothing more. If he is more 
and becomes a party, he is in danger. The cause is 
that of the client and not that of the lawyer. I never 
felt more grossly insulted than when a lawyer in the 
course of a settlement asked me to endorse my client’s 
check. It was his right to refuse the check; but to 
compel me to decline in the presence of my client 
was a trick worthy of the man who invented it. I 
have made it an inflexible rule, from which I have 
never departed, to remember that I am only the ad¬ 
vocate ; that my interest is that of the advocate, not 
the partisan. Overzeal in a client’s cause should be 
guarded against. It may lead to improper practices 
to gain an end. The lawyer should never be ab¬ 
sorbed in the client. No matter how earnest he may 
be, he should ever remember himself. Lost in his 
client’s cause, no lawyer should be. The strife for 
victory is apt to cloud the vision. It pleases a client 





A LA WYER PUTTING HIS HONOR IN PLEDGE. 3 15 

to show a sympathy with him, and, so there is no 
falsehood, no giving of manhood to an unworthy 
client and an unworthy cause, such sympathy may 
be proper. But when a lawyer stakes his “ pro¬ 
fessional honor,” as I have heard it done, that his 
client is innocent, he has no honor to put in pledge. 
Some lawyers have nothing but models of right and 
purity for clients. Self-love washes over and cleanses 
their clients. The waters must be pretty copious to 
cleanse some of them. Many codes of legal ethics 
have been written, but generally by “ carpet knights,” 
not by those who have fought in the fray. Said a 
friend to me, “ He is a lawyer who looks upon a 
client as something to build law points upon.” The 
true lawyer recognizes his client as a man, one whose 
interests he is to guard, and not a name with which 
to settle the law, or upon which to display his learn¬ 
ing. He is not a pedestal upon which the lawyer is 
to exhibit himself. Nor is the cause intrusted to the 
lawyer that he may gain newspaper notoriety by it. 
The client’s interest and the sacredness of the law¬ 
yer’s self are the just combination. 

Another practice cannot be too strongly con¬ 
demned, that of talking to a judge out of court of 
the cause before him. I once heard a judge say to 
a lawyer who insisted upon arguing a cause which 
had been decided, “ I listened to your argument, and 
I listened to you upon the streets , I will hear no more.” 
It was a just reproof. No doubt every judge is an¬ 
noyed by such practices, and thinks less of the law- 


3 16 


THE IDEALIST. 


yer who is guilty of them. But courtesy leads him 
to listen against his inclination. It does not influ¬ 
ence his judgment; but that is not to the credit of 
the lawyer. His purpose was to bias the judge. 
Before the bar of the court is where the advocate 
should be heard; or, if in chambers, in the presence 
of the opposing counsel. No whispering, no insidi¬ 
ous statements poured in the ear of the judge in 
private find place in the practice of the honorable 
lawyer. I will not say every man guilty of these 
whisperings deliberately means to be dishonorable. 
No doubt it is often from a want of thought, or from 
a lack of that high sense of honor which can never 
be taught, which nature must give. 


A LEAF OR MORE. 


W E recognize the folly of fighting the past. We 
recognize that the grave covers the authors 
of the wrong; that we cannot strike the dead; that 
their dust has no ears to hear our reproach; that we 
but tear our own hearts with the treasured recollec¬ 
tions of the injuries of the years that are gone, yet 
time will not put out the fire; prudence, policy may 
hide it, but the wrong was never avenged and will 
yet burn and break out. Self-communing fans it to 
flame. When memory comes to the front and over¬ 
shadows the present, the past stalks out a giant driving 
back the present and filling the heart with bitterness ; 
wrongs cannot be avenged, they remain. If repent¬ 
ance could blot them out, then repentance would be 
an advantage. When we can forget, then may we 
forgive. We may cant of forgiveness, but till it can 
remove the scar, it is useless. 

A man fond of dress is a selfish man. Such men 
have no money for poverty. The love of dress be¬ 
comes as hungry as avarice. Dress is thought to be 
sufficient to hide mental deficiency and deformity, as 
well as the unshapely body. I imagine the man 

who lives to dress makes an indifferent husband and 

27* 317 



THE IDEALIST. 


318 

a neglectful father. It is by no means the handsome 
men who are so fond of dress; just as the really 
attractive man boasts least of his conquests of the 
female heart. It is handed down to us that some 
ugly self-admirer said that all he wanted was a half- 
hour’s start of the most personally attractive man in 
the kingdom to beat in the race of love. And that 
boast has come to us through more than one hundred 
years; but we have never heard what the women of the 
time had to say as to the assertions of this braggart. 
I do not believe him. Some men will get the cordial 
of flattery out of very dry leaves. Their own vanity 
distils it. It is the first inquiry of a young girl as 
to a man, “ Is he nice-looking ?” I use the very ex¬ 
pression of the inquirers. Where self-admiration is 
needed to make up the tack of the admiration of 
others I suppose nature gives it. She fills that space 
which would otherwise be vacant. I have seen the 
man without talents, or wealth, or education, or come¬ 
liness bursting with self-admiration. Yet that inflation 
keeps him afloat. The opinion of others would sink 
him. 

One of the greatest hinderances in the business of 
life comes from a want of candor. In the business 
of to-day I was impressed with the truth of this as¬ 
sertion. I saw something was wrong, that a wound 
had been given. I sought to learn how it had been 
made. I only saw the cause by glimmers. I want 
c man to speak out. I abhor politic speech, and 
I doubt if speech is ever politic. There is nothing 


A LEAF OR MORE. 


319 


politic but truth. Deception serves no man. Courage 
is the best counsellor, as fear is the worst. Deception 
returns ; truth goes on. What is one man that any 
other man should fear him ? We may fear evil, and 
the result of evil doing, but no man. If we have 
wronged him, then may we fear him. 

Ah, says the poor man, it is easy to be bold with 
the pen, but my employer can deprive me of bread: 
hungry children make me timid. If I speak out, I 
have no wages the next week. Can epigrams with¬ 
stand hunger ? Perhaps the writer has no need to 
hide his feelings or opinions. Ideal equality cannot 
exist. If we try to dig deep we find rock ; if we raise 
our arms upward our feet cling to the earth. Arro¬ 
gant men point me a way, but it is dark. Their tiny 
candles do not light it. They dispute as to who shall 
carry the lantern. The first blast from the grave 
blows out the light. Be content, the power which 
moves the universe has laws for you. You may not 
know them; it may not be needful that you should. 

To record valuable thought the writer must have 
freedom. He must serve no master, or his work will 
be that of a slave. He must be bound by no creed, 
else he writes in bonds. If he fears, he lacks purpose ; 
if he obey authority, he smothers originality. 

He who would say a mean thing never wants for 
invention to coin it. He who would detract can 
always find flaws. He who would see defects can 
always find a crack to peep through. He who would 
magnify faults can always get a glass to increase them. 


320 


THE IDEALIST. 


He who would be just, must labor and conquer, 
while malice, envy, and slander are ever close at hand. 
He who would be happy must close his ears; he 
who would be miserable will seek applause. 

Weakness is not refinement, and strength is not 
coarseness, as the weak often assume. Delicacy is 
more likely to be associated with strength than with 
weakness. Because a man steadily works and does 
not fret, because he bears life’s ills and does not com¬ 
plain, these whining creatures assume that he does 
not feel; that they have a monopoly of feeling because 
they monopolize the complaints. I know of no more 
offensive human beings, male and female, than those 
whose refinement comes from weakness and selfish¬ 
ness. They are shocked in public, to indulge in 
private. Their refinement leads them to watch others 
and try them by their petty and narrow opinions. 
The strong hand of labor is gentler than the puny 
fingers of lazy self-indulgence. Nothing takes the 
creases out of a man’s mind as does toil. No man 
can avoid man’s destiny; it is work or misery. Idle¬ 
ness is not the nursery of refinement. Self-indulgence 
is not its parent, and it is not related to weakness of 
character. Be strong of mind and body, if you would 
be truly gentle. Think not because you are puny of 
character that you have finer instincts, a more deli¬ 
cate touch by reason of it. The tints of the hill¬ 
side flower are soft as those of the hot-house plant, 
and perchance it is more beautiful. I have noticed 
in the faces of those who claim to be the most refined 


A LEAF OR MORE. 


321 


a hardness that is painful. I never saw a girl with a 
sweet and lovely face disturb a theatre audience with 
her chatter. The women who do this have hard and 
ugly faces, as though they hated the world and wished 
to torment it. They are angry that the world does 
not admire them, and are determined it shall notice 
them, even if it be to despise them. 

It is a hard task, finding content in idleness. 

Self-admiration spreads her wings over us and 
kindly shuts from our sight our defects and blemishes. 
The dark shadow of these wings prevents us from 
seeing that which would mortify us. Could the sum 
of truth pour its full blaze upon us, perchance we 
could not endure ourselves. The more we need 
these sheltering wings the wider are they spread. 

Solitude and self-respect. One of a throng, and 
littleness. Singing praises to man dwarfs the singer. 
In a crowd identity is lost. The soldier dies un¬ 
known. It appealed to the heart of man to be told, 
“ But the very hairs of your head are all numbered.” 

The man who will not submit to wrong or injury 
is the reformer of the world. It is the aggressive 
man who moves it. Forbearance except to the weak 
is not a virtue. 

A day is not lost if in it we have not done or said 
a foolish thing. It is absurd cant that every waking 
hour must produce utility. A day without wrong or 
folly is a great gain. Man has been oppressed by 
maxims beyond him, and advice out of his power. 
Worrying brings ill-health and wrinkles, no other 


V 


322 


THE IDEALIST 


fruit. Yet it is the most persistently followed of 
human occupations, and fretting people fret because 
of those who refuse to fret. Better sleep. 

Unhappy is the man whose support or whose content 
depends upon the breath of popular applause. If it 
leaves him, he can as well coax the wind to blow 
upon him in a mid-summer’s noon, or ask the ice to 
thaw in his frozen hands, as bid it come back. Popu¬ 
larity never returns. As when the breath of life 
leaves, there is death. Better never have it than mourn 
its loss. Better never be a “ statesman” than end a 
wandering lecturer, twin brother of the wandering 
minstrel, or the discarded vagabond. If it is but a 
fitful gust which blows over the head of youth, the 
man may forget it, or contemn it; but if it leaves him 
when years have come it leaves him a wreck; the 
forgotten idol, melancholy in his loneliness. When 
he sees his pedestal crumbling, he looks for the help¬ 
ing hand to assist him in repairing it, but it stretches 
not out. Seek inward applause that will not desert 
save for just cause. 

The sword of revenge has no handle, and he who 
takes it up grasps its edge and sees first his own 
blood. 

What leaves have we gathered ? Are any of them 
green, or are they all withered and dead ? 

Lives are smooth or rough, as their wants are few 
or many. It is the multiplicity of wants which makes 
life lfard. If the secret of the life of the serene, calm 
man was known, it would be found that it was not 


A LEAF OR MORE. 


323 


good fortune which gave him peace, because of that 
he had no more than the majority of men and less 
than that of many discontents: it was in the fewness 
of his wants. It was not a yielding to the inevitable 
because he despaired of more of fortune’s gifts : it was 
because of his value of them. He had no need of 
them. He knew their possession would make him 
no happier. Discontent comes from a wrong estimate 
of life and not from the want of its luggage. The 
traveller who carries superfluous baggage but burdens 
himself; so does life’s traveller. I have contended 
against the slavery of fear, and protested against 
domination of men by an appeal to terror. I have 
written in scorn of fears brought into existence and 
kept alive by craft. I have said that every man is 
not a saint who wears a cowl, and that all gifts are 
not charity. I have asserted that men should not be 
afraid to be happy; and that every man can be a 
better man in sunshine than in fog. I insist upon 
open doors, and upon light in the caverns of dark¬ 
ness, and that we are not called upon to believe that 
which we cannot understand. That it is falsehood, 
not truth, which m ust hide itself in mystery. The 
Druids sought the gloom of the forest, and so has 
every other ghostly tyranny and cunning impostor. 
I have said that independence of thought and honesty 
of purpose are in the man, not in his fortune; that a 
man need not be rich to be free; that wealth has its 
slaves as well as poverty. I have said that my ex¬ 
perience has taught me that men’s professions are no 


324 


THE IDEALIST. 


evidence of their characters. To the utmost of my 
ability I have tried to elevate the individual man, and 
have paid but little attention to sects or parties. If 
I have agreed with the faith or principles of any 
combination of men, it has been by accident, not 
by design. I am joined with none. 

As years pass the spirit shakes off the slavery of 
fear and we dare to speak the truth. We heed no 
bigot’s frown, no petty tyrant’s threat, we have learned 
the impotency of both. Earth has ceased to make 
promises, or they have ceased to be of value. We 
do not belong to the army of singers of men’s praises. 
We care not for their banquets or their dedications. 
And we would not be welcome at either, for we bring 
no laudations. There are men singers and women 
singers to be hired. Not those who sing the divine 
melodies, but those who sing the songs of flattery. 
The “ orator” has taken the place of the ancient jester, 
and he wears as motley a cap as did his predecessor. 

We have not kept a profit and loss account with 
truth, or valued her to see whether her patronage is 
profitable. I respect neither the worthless dust of 
the past nor the arrogance of the present. We see 
bigotry most plainly when it strikes our bigotry, as 
the proud man soonest discerns pride. 

Consistency may come from narrowness, and 
thought may not jar with thought, because of the 
fewness of their number. It is poverty of thought 
oftener than wealth of reflection which produces con¬ 
sistency. The single coin of the beggar’s wallet has 


A LEAF OR MORE. 


325 


no fellow to make discord with. It is the many 
pieces of the rich man’s purse which jingle. Truth 
can have but one face. Yet in the mirrors of life we 
think we see many, and often we cannot tell which 
is the true face and which the counterfeit. 


28 



INDEX. 


A. 

Accumulation, torture of, 28. 
Actor and dreamer, 37. 

Age, self-deception of, 82. 
Age’s refuge, 55. 

Anger of memory, 76. 
Approval, man’s, 102. 
Aspirations, literary, 190. 
Assertion, self-, 210. 

B. 

“ Bad book,” the, 180. 
Belief, 23. 

Best life, the, 25. 

Bizarre bird, 68. 

Black beast, 152. 

Boldness, 168. 

Breath which taints, 248. 
Breathed name, 53. 

Butterfly, old, 107. 

C. 

Cards, painted, 249. 

Catching the rays, 312. 
Changed births, 139. 
Character, 303. 

Charities, public, 115. 
Charms, personal, 259. 

Cheap world, 282. 


Clean page, 112. 

Community’s estimation, 131. 
Consciousness, self-, 243. 
Crime, 300. 

Cruel, the name of the most, 1 
Cynic, the, 49. 

D. 

Daughter, the, 263. 

Death, 94. 

Debts, 92. 

Deception, 146. 

Development, 246. 

Devotee and defaulter, 72. 
Dissected, 47. 

Dreamer, 37. 

Dross, king of, 34. 

E. 

Eden, 29. 

Envy, 258. 

Error, martyrs of, 214. 
Exclusive, the, 68. 

F. 

Face, the, 297. 

Fame and fiction, 223. 

Father’s faith, the, 271. 

Fear, 163. 


3 2 7 




INDEX. 


328 

Fleck of sunshine, 43. 
Forgetfulness, 70. 
Fortune’s favorites, 62. 
Friends, 46. 

G. 

Gentleman, the, 125. 
Gifts, 88. 

Green leaves, 241. 

H. 

Happiness, 98, 186. 

Hate, 31. 

Honorable mention, 176. 
Human blood, 251. 
Humanity, 217. 
Humility, 109. 

Hurt self, 35. 

I. 

Ignorance, 178. 
Imitation, 77. 

Immortal by satire, 52. 
Individuality, 254. 
Ingrates, 195- 
Iniquity, 170. 

Interests, our, 310. 
Intolerance, 84. 

Iron, be, 163. 

K. 

Killing time, 281. 

King of dross, 34. 

L. 

Lady, the first, 269. 

Law, 245. 


Lawyer putting his honor 
pledge, 314. 

Lawyers, 219. 

Leaf or more, 317. 

Libraries, free, 33. 

Life, quarrel with, 143. 

Life’s poverty, 81. 

Listeners, 225. 

Literary aspirations, 190. 
Losses by time, 154. 

Love shown another, 255. 
Love, the lesson of, 148. 

M. 

Man and woman, 199. 
Memory’s words, 60. 

Money, 257. 

Monody, 252. 

Monuments, 236. 

N. 

Nature, 216. 

O. 

Obstinacy, 74. 

Office-seeking, 208. 

Other world, 265. 

Ourselves, 230. 

P. 

Player and the pipe, 22. 
Pleasure seekers, 242. 

Poison of gifts, 88. 

Poverty, 291. 

Poverty, life’s, 81. 

Prelude, II. 



INDEX. 


329 


R. 

Refuge, age’s, 55. 
Remoulding, 90. 
Respectability, 228. 
Respectability, test of, 105. 
Resume, 238. 

Rhapsody, 287. 

Rich and poor, 302. 

Rogue, 157. 

Romance, content, 30. 
Romance’s death, 174. 

S. 

Sarcastic speech, 256. 

Satire, 52. 

Selfishness, thrifty, 266. 
Selfishness, worship from, 57. 
Sight, passing out of, 121. 
Silence, 100. 

Snows of winter, 26. 

Social position, 203. 
Speeches, 42. 

Steadfast heart, 183. 
Strait-jacket, 137. 

Strength, 128. 

Strife, 141. 

Study, one, 44. 

Stumbling, 198. 

Sunshine, fleck of, 43. 

T. 

Tear, the, 39. 

Thought, disrobed, 64. 


Thought, martyrs of, 58. 
Thread of life, 188. 

Thrifty selfishness, 266. 

Time, killing, 281. 

Time’s losses, 154. 

True cause, 234. 

Truth, 113. 

U. 

Unmoved, 275. 

V. 

Vanity, mortified, 51. 

Virtue and success, 260. 
Visionary, the, 65. 
Vivisected, 47. 

Vow of iniquity, 170. 

Vows which dwarf, 160. 

W. 

What of that, 273. 

Woman’s money, 32. 
Woman’s true place, 278. 
World, a cheap, 282. 

World, the other, 265. 
Worship from selfishness, 57. 
Writer, the, 21, 250. 

Y. 

Youth, 261. 


THE END. 

























































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